A LIFE UNPREDICTED

and other stories

JOANNE PHILLIPS

Table of Contents

Introduction

A Life Unpredicted

No Matter What

Parenting Class

A Careful Man

Joy

Touch

So Many Children

Dear Jean

Gridlocked

One To Keep

Acknowledgements

These short stories are works of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in them are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events or localities is entirely coincidental.

Mirrorball Books

Copyright © Joanne Phillips 2012

Joanne Phillips asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

All rights reserved in all media. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author and/or publisher.

Cover design by Blondesign

Introduction

A collection of short fiction is a bit like a box of chocolates – there should be something for everyone, but you don’t have to like every chocolate in the box. From the shortest piece of flash fiction (Gridlocked is under 300 words) to the longest of the stories (So Many Children), I hope you will find in these pages some stories to entertain, inspire or interest you, however much time you do – or don’t – have.

A Life Unpredicted was short-listed for the Grace Dieu Short Story competition in 2012, and Gridlocked was long-listed for the Fish Flash Fiction prize in the same year. My personal favourite is One to Keep. In fact, I originally wrote two endings for this story, as I couldn’t decide how it should end. (So if you don’t like the ending be sure to email me and ask for the alternative one!)

This collection of short stories follows no pattern, and has no particular theme. You might spot similarities in topics, such as parenting, love, loss and regret, and you’d be right to notice that these are some of the themes that fascinate me. If you enjoy my short fiction, I hope you’ll try my novels too.

Happy reading!

A Life Unpredicted

The house where my mother lived her whole life stands proudly to the side of a walled rose garden. This garden, alive with heavily scented blooms, was the love of her life. As I weave my way along the cracked path and duck under a low willow archway, the damp heat frizzes my hair into a halo. The scent of the roses almost hurts my nose. This smell will always remind me of my mother.

My brother is here already. The roses and their significance would be lost on him; he wears his cold rationality like a badge of honour. Before the funeral we hadn’t seen each other in five years. I wish I didn’t have to see him now.

My mother’s house is as gloomy inside as it is sunny outside. Mark hasn’t bothered to put on any lights – perhaps he wants to spare the expense. She wouldn’t have been inside on a day like this anyway. There needed only to be a slant of sunlight through the cherry blossom and she would gather up her newspaper and her tea and set up camp on one of the benches which dotted her garden, petals lining her path like confetti.

If my mother’s fingers were green, my brother’s are grey: battleship grey. He holds his hand out to me as I enter the kitchen and I shake it limply, an odd greeting for siblings in their thirties.

He says, ‘We’d better get on with it then,’ and I nod.

Mark regards me impatiently out of our father’s eyes. ‘It has to be done, Elizabeth. If not us, who?’

Who indeed? I tell him, in a tone that allows no argument, that I will start at the top of the house and he should begin in the kitchen. This is partly out of a desire to be as far away from him as possible, and partly because I know where our mother’s most personal possessions are stowed. I want to protect them from his calculating eyes.

There is a rickety loft ladder, permanently pulled down, leading to the cramped attic space. At five feet two I don’t have to duck but there is still scant room to manoeuvre the cardboard boxes, wooden chests and scrappy sticks of furniture. Through the thin floors I can hear Mark clattering about below. It makes me nervous. My brother probably finds the sorting of our mother’s possessions no more onerous than clearing out his garage. I picture him making three piles: throw, sell, keep. The keep pile will be small and made up of faux sentimental items he imagines his wife or daughter might get a kick out of. He won’t think about me. The sell pile will be even smaller: our mother always said her most prized possession was her sense of humour.

I have two piles: deal with now and deal with later. So far the second pile is the largest. I work through my tears, stopping every now and then to wipe my face on a scratchy crocheted blanket. It’s only when I drag a rusty sewing machine out from a corner, disturbing a family of tiny spiders and revealing a faded cardboard box with a label pasted on the side, that I am forced to stop.

Lizzie’s School Reports and Certificates is printed in my mother’s careful hand. I picture her painstakingly writing out the label, and the image is so vivid I feel I could reach out and touch her. I miss her more in this moment than I have before or might again.

I cry silently, my face strained up towards the dusty rafters, one hand hovering near my mouth as if to catch the pain should it leak out. The worst thing that could happen now would be for Mark to find me like this. He is in the sitting room; I can track his movements, he makes no attempt at quiet. I wonder whether I will find a box labelled Mark’s Reports but then remember I won’t. He took them with him when he left home. I can’t recall why, but I can imagine the curling pages filed away neatly in a black metal filing cabinet. If he kept them at all, that is.

The box opens easily, its contents regularly thumbed. This makes me smile and it makes me sad.

Before I can delve any deeper, two things happen simultaneously: my mobile phone rings and Mark calls up from the landing: Would I like some tea?

I ignore him and answer the phone without looking at the display. My boss. Bad choice.

‘Elizabeth? Where are you?’

I stroke the label in front of me and try to remember the last time anybody called me Lizzie.

‘It’s Saturday,’ I say faintly.

‘I know what bloody day it is. I’ll email you the details later, but what I need you to do is ...’

I listen with one ear only, the other trained on the screaming of my mother’s ancient kettle below. At the bottom of the loft ladder I see my brother’s balding head as he noisily deposits a tray on the landing. Now he thinks I’m ignorant as well as stupid.

‘I need this on my desk Monday morning at the latest,’ the tinny voice in my ear demands. He ends the call without a goodbye and I stare at the phone, fighting the urge to hurl it across the attic.

My boss never asks how I am. He knows nothing about me – not even that my mother, the only person I was close to, died suddenly in her sleep fifteen days ago. And if he did know, he wouldn’t care.

A woman of my age, I should be married with a couple of kids, living in a semi in the suburbs. I should at least have a career of my own, a proper job. Something more than glorified dogsbody.

I climb down to retrieve the tray: dark tea and half a packet of my mother’s ginger biscuits. When she’d opened this packet she would have expected to finish them herself.

I shout a belated thank you downstairs and Mark appears, looking dusty and dishevelled.

‘How are you getting on?’ he asks.

‘I’ve hardly made a dent,’ I tell him truthfully.

‘I’ll come up and help soon. I’m nearly finished down here. I’ve just found a pile of newspapers that date back to the dark ages,’ he says, rolling his eyes.

I climb back up to the attic and resume my position next to the carton of school reports. Picking one out at random, I begin to read.

Class 5B July 1987

Lizzie is a gifted pupil who shows great promise and a rare understanding of the texts we have studied this year. I am sure she will do well whatever her chosen career, but I strongly advise that Lizzie considers teaching.

Well! I’d always thought my English teacher despised me. A warm glow of pride spreads across my chest and I dare to pick up another report.

Biology – Group A

Lizzie is a natural leader and is very popular with her school friends. She is always helpful and polite and contributes to group discussions. I am confident that this pupil is destined for a successful and fulfilling career, probably in the field of medicine.

Popular? Was I? I’m sure I was helpful and polite – mainly because I was terrified of Mrs Mason. Just as well she taught biology and not geography: she had my future mapped out all wrong.

I realise it is silent downstairs and I wonder what my brother has found to absorb him. Maybe he’s just taking a break. I picture him staring blankly at the wall while he sips his stewed tea. Will the familiar pattern of the wallpaper, etched in our minds since childhood, begin to wear him down? The quiet seeps up through my feet and I get that feeling I always have in libraries and museums: edgy and suddenly bone-tired. A yawn stretches at my face.

I pick up another report and unfold it warily.

Lizzie has grown in confidence this year and proved adept at performing, both in character roles and as the lead. If she keeps up the hard work I see no reason why she shouldn’t pursue her dream of working in the theatre. Her love of the craft and her enthusiasm will take her far.

My dream? Well, there it is, laid out before me in the spidery hand of my drama teacher. For a moment I am back in her class: the mustiness of the wooden floor; the long, yellowing benches lining the walls. I hear her calm voice calling out directions. I am happy.

Tears fall in fat, round balls, splashing onto the school report, blurring the words into pale blue smudges. Who am I crying for now? My mother or myself?

I hadn’t expected this. I hadn’t expected to find myself – versions of what I might have been – in my mother’s attic. A teacher, a doctor, an actress? They each thought they could see around my abilities to the road ahead, and each one made me in her own image. But none of them were right.

I scan the rest of the reports, curious to know whether anyone had predicted secretary–stroke–gofer as a career choice. No one had. But their generous, hopeful words pile up on me and fill my body with a sharp, heavy sadness. I don’t know what to do with it.

I finish up quickly, probably taking less care now than my brother. I call him to help with the boxes. He sees my face but says nothing. Wise. I’m not really angry at him anymore, and can’t remember too clearly why I was to begin with. Jealousy, perhaps? That he has so much and is so defined by what he does? Whereas I am defined by what I didn’t do.

We carry the throw pile out first and load up Mark’s Mercedes. The exercise brings my body back to life and I enjoy the ache in my muscles. When a bag of rubbish splits and a mixture of old tea bags and flour explodes onto the pristine interior of Mark’s car, I even manage a sharp laugh.

‘She was a hoarder,’ I tell him seriously.

‘You don’t say!’

My mouth twitches some more as my brother uses his jacket to mop up. That suit probably cost more than my entire wardrobe.

When the house is half emptied we stop for more tea.

‘I’ll have to do a journey to the tip first,’ Mark tells me, ‘and then come back for the rest.’

I wave him off from the garden gate.

When he comes back I’ll invite him for dinner, not at my flat but at that restaurant I pass on my way to work every morning. My treat. I think he’d like that.

When my boss calls me again, which he will, I’ll tell him he needs to find a new dogsbody. I might even use that word, and a few more for good measure. He will be shocked. I picture his wobbling, surprised face and laugh out loud. I like the sound it makes in my mother’s garden. I imagine her laughing and happy here.

And then I’ll make a plan. I hug the small pile of papers to my chest and think how reassuring it feels to hold them there. In the words of my past I’ll find the key to my future. I’ll make my own predictions, and I’ll make one come true. Maybe one of my teachers will turn out to be right, but I don’t care what I become. I just care about trying.

A breeze blows over the garden, bending the roses sedately in its path. I reach out and cup a large-petalled bloom and hold it close to my nose. It brings my senses to life and fills my head with colour. This smell will always remind me of who I really am.

No Matter What

She knew she’d find him at the ice rink. Each day he practised there after school, marking out figures of eight in the grubby ice, gliding in circles with his hands behind his back, hair streaming off a gleeful face. Oh, he loved skating all right. You could say it was his only love. Tammy didn’t kid herself – she knew her place in the hierarchy.

On the bus she tightly held the rail on the back of the seat in front. Each lurch around a corner threatened to knock her off balance. She could sense the change in her body already, the fluids forming a protective barrier, her senses on red alert for danger. Some boys dived on at Gibson Street, rowdy and smelling of sweat and sweets. Not much younger than her, but eons away from her now. Tammy gripped the rail more firmly and turned towards the window.

At the ice rink she stopped, her resolve stalling. Was she really going to do this? Could she? A shout from behind her, then a shove, a shoulder knocking her into the pale brick wall. The boys from the bus, or maybe some different boys, running and laughing, hardly aware of the girl clutching a plastic chemist’s bag to her chest. As she righted herself the bag rattled: a friendly sound that reassured her. Everything would be fine. Hadn’t he said he loved her? Hadn’t he told her it would be fine? No matter what.

For a minute, maybe two, Tammy couldn’t see him. The lights over the rink were bright but it was rammed with skaters and her eyes couldn’t track them all at once, couldn’t pick out one blonde head, one skinny back with sharp shoulder blades and a proud swagger. Disorientated, Tammy leaned against the barrier and wiped a hand over her face. She looked at her watch. He had to be here. But where?

And then she saw him. The back and side of him, at least. Unmistakeably him, and her heart jumped a little with the sudden memory of his hands on her skin, his body on top of hers. Feeling clumsy compared to the graceful skaters, Tammy walked around the perimeter, her view of him blocked by moving bodies, faces, waving arms. The bag in her hand contained evidence of her news, and a joke: a tiny object she figured he might get a kick out of. On impulse she’d picked it up in the pharmacy while she waited to pay for the test. It was cute. It was symbolic.

‘Hi,’ she said, reaching his side at last. And then, ‘Oh. My. God.’

They looked at her, two gleeful faces, mouths blurred from kissing. At least he had the decency to look embarrassed. The other girl – who was she? Tammy hadn’t seen her around before – just glared.

‘Tammy,’ he called after her as she ran for the exit. She couldn’t answer, couldn’t stop. Tears glazed her eyes, but mostly she felt fear. What now? was all she thought. What now?

She burst out into the sunshine, leaned back against the wall. Her slack hand let go of the bag and it slipped open like a fresh wound. Out fell the baby’s rattle, rolling onto the pavement and on into the road. A bus came round the corner. Tammy turned away and began to walk, then run. She wouldn’t wait to see the rattle crushed under the wheels of the bus. She knew she could have saved it, but now, really, what was the point?

Parenting Class

‘You need help,’ Gina had said, ‘and I know just the place.’

Gina was my social worker, and the place was Parenting Class, Tuesday afternoons, free to those desperate enough to need it.

My problem: I was a rubbish mum. Gina had turned not-judging into an art form, but even she was shocked when she arrived for her monthly visit that sticky morning in August. Rosie, naked except for a pull-up so full it stretched down to her knees; me, rigid in the doorway, screaming at the child. I hadn’t washed for a week. When had I last eaten? Gina wanted to know.

‘Eat? I cried. ‘Eat what?’

Well, I was a shoe-in for parenting classes. Any fool could see that. Except for me, of course.

A week later, I arrived at the centre and dropped Rosie off at the crèche. Or rather, I stood by while they extracted her from my leg, one sticky finger at a time. I was glad to see the back of her, and I despised myself for it. I was twenty minutes early; usually it takes me half an hour just to get out of the house, but today, as if sensing change in the air, Rosie behaved.

I waited, mercifully alone. Five chairs in a semicircle faced a narrow wooden table with another chair behind it. A flip chart by the door: someone had already taken the time to write the date on one clean, white page. Across from me was a small TV screen and DVD player, perched on top of a toy box. There were toys strewn all over the floor; some were shoved into corners or piled into plastic trays, as if someone had tried to disguise the room’s usual purpose, but hadn’t tried too hard.

When the others arrived I amused myself guessing about their lives. Sharon: single mum like me, probably on drugs – if not now then definitely in the past. Her child didn’t cling to her at all, and I wasn’t sure if I thought this a good thing or a bad thing. Donna: flighty. Three kids trailing behind her, each with suspiciously different coloured hair. And – a man! Andrew, dejected-looking and beaten by life. He reminded me of me.

And then there was Charlotte. She was so perfect, I hated her on sight. Polished, you’d call her; everything shiny. Glossy hair, glowing skin, glittering diamond on her finger. Plus a wedding band. Well, wasn’t that reason enough for me to hate her?

Week 1: Sharing

‘Sometimes I just want to run away. I think – what am I doing here? Is this my life? And it seems … so pointless.’

Five pairs of eyes gazed mistily at Donna, who pulled out another tissue and sobbed. My eyes: rolling in disgust. Pul-ease. Had she never heard of contraception? But I was wrong about the flighty part – the father of Donna’s three kids had selfishly gone and died six months ago; she was finding it hard to cope. Well, with a widow’s pension she was probably crying all the way to the bank.

Despite the sentimentality, I could sympathise with Donna. And with Sharon, for all her naivety; it’s hard being a single parent, whether you’ve known the father or not. Even Andrew was OK, if gushing. Gina, you could tell, was overjoyed to have a man in her group – she had already banned the word ‘mothering’.

But Charlotte? She shouldn’t have been there at all, as far as I could see. She watched us spill our souls and then she looked down at her impeccable nails. She didn’t share. And I didn’t care.

Week 2: Positive Parenting

‘Don’t you think she’s weird?’ I said to Donna, sotto voce. She followed my eyes to Charlotte, then nodded eagerly.

‘Totally. Like, what is she even doing here? She’s not one of us, is she?’

I shook my head. By one of us, Donna meant single. Widowed, divorced, separated or left at the altar (this was Andrew’s story, not mine), single was a thing apart. One parent: bad. Two parents: good. The rule of the world. So we struggled and swore and hit out and forgot to feed our kids green vegetables and let them stay up and watch EastEnders with us because we were just too damn tired to fight it anymore. Alone. When there are two of you, it’s easier. That’s just the way it is.

‘Let’s examine what we mean by Positive Parenting,’ said Gina, marker pen poised above a fresh sheet of paper. Her smile was genuine. I could change that.

‘Not killing the little bleeders?’ I said, the class joker. Three laughs, one frown, and an uncomfortable shift of the buttocks from perfect Charlotte.

She’d seen nothing yet.

Week 4: Behaviour Management (a recap)

‘Hi!’ Gina said brightly when I rushed in late, my face still wet from Rosie’s tears. ‘We missed you last week.’

‘Rosie was ill,’ I said. I was lying: Rosie had been fine. I was ill, sick in the head, at the end of my rope, and last week it was all I could do to get up in the morning and pour Cheerios into a bowl. For Rosie, that is. I couldn’t eat until she’d gone to bed, and then it was only chips or pizza. Rosie was wearing my nerves so thin with her constant whining and her demands of play with me, mummy, play with me now, that I wondered when, exactly, I would completely lose control.

‘I hope everything’s OK now,’ said Gina.

I avoided her kind eyes. ‘Just peachy. So, what did I miss?’

‘Time-out and behaviour charts,’ Andrew gushed. ‘I tried those techniques, Gina, and they really worked.’

‘That’s great.’ Gina smiled at us benevolently. ‘I know it probably feels like you’re a long way from feeling in control, but believe me, it will come.’

It better, I thought.

In the corner, Charlotte sat straight-backed, gazing off to one side. She was either staring at a baby doll with enormous, drawn-on eyes, or thinking about getting her roots done. I hadn’t heard her speak once about her children, or her anxieties or fears. At break time, Donna confirmed that Miss Perfect had kept schtum last week too. I huddled with the others and we all stared over our tea cups at the interloper. I hoped she could feel my hatred.

Week 5: Conclusion and Planning for Success

‘How are you doing, really?’ Gina had caught me on the way in. The look in her eyes said: Don’t lie this time.

‘Not too good,’ I admitted. ‘But better than I’d thought.’

It was true. Some of the stuff I’d learned actually worked, and Rosie seemed calmer, or maybe that was me. I had even taken a long bath – on my own.

‘Everyone else is doing so well,’ I confessed, ‘that I feel like a bit of a failure.’

Gina smiled. ‘I think you’re wrong. I think every parent struggles just as much as you.’

Well, then they should share it, I didn’t say. But when Charlotte came in, I glared at her extra hard. It was our last session, and I was happy never to have to see her smug face again.

It was Gina who started it. ‘We need catharsis,’ she said. ‘This is our last chance to share. Come on, guys – why are we really here?’

Four pairs of eyes turned expectantly to Charlotte, who looked up in surprise. Spill it, lady, I thought. Gina patted her hand encouragingly.

‘I don’t know where to start,’ Charlotte said, her polished voice a little shaky. ‘You’ve all made me so welcome,’ – I had the grace to cringe a little here – ‘but I’ve not participated as much as I should have.’ She pleated her linen skirt with her fingers. I thought: she’ll never get the creases out of that.

Donna said softly, ‘We have wondered why you’re here,’ and then shot me a look. I glared back. Traitor.

‘When I was sixteen,’ Charlotte said, ‘I had a baby. A girl.’ She looked at the doll in its makeshift cot and swallowed. ‘I left her, at the hospital. I knew … I thought she’d be better off.’

Silence. We stared at her, the four of us, open-mouthed and wide-eyed.

‘I was sixteen!’ she cried. ‘I didn’t know what else to do.’

‘And now?’ Gina prompted gently.

‘Sometimes I feel so guilty. I let my kids get away with anything. I guess I’m trying to make amends.’

‘You did that?’ I said. ‘You abandoned your own child?’

Charlotte nodded, but not a single tear fell from her eyes.

Maybe she had cried every possible tear already; maybe crying didn’t help.

I figured coming to parenting classes might just have been the second hardest thing she’d ever done. For a floor-spinning moment, my cheeks burned with shame. I’d done all I could to alienate her, to compound her discomfort and isolation. But only because everything about her made me feel so worthless.

There was nothing I could do about it now.

Or, maybe there was.

We milled around the centre at the end of the session, unwilling to go back to our lives, our kids, to carry on using these ‘techniques’ without the safety net of our group. When I walked up to Charlotte, she flinched a little. Well, I deserved that. I pressed a piece of paper into her hand.

‘My number,’ I said. ‘In case you ever fancy a play-date. My house isn’t anything special, and Rosie’s a bit … and I’m not very–’

‘I’d love to,’ she said.

‘You need help,’ Gina had said to me. Yes, I thought finally. I do.

A Careful Man

Janelle parked across the street and scrunched down as low as she could. The 1930s semi with criss-cross leaded windows hid shyly behind a round chestnut tree. Nestled within the leaves, a street light cast a yellow haze across the driveway, where a grey Volvo was parked. Janelle hunkered down even further until only her eyes remained visible, reflecting the light in a wide stare.

She waited.

The man worked the night shift at Thomson’s. Picking and packing. It didn’t seem a very glamorous occupation to Janelle.

‘If he was a brain surgeon would that have made Darrell’s death worthwhile?’ her mum had asked.

Well, no. Of course not.

But then again … Maybe if other lives had been at stake …

Janelle knew her mum hadn’t thought much of Darrell. The earring, the tattoo, the low-slung jeans and carefully messed-up hair. And he was only a mechanic, after all. But a brave one. No one could deny that he was brave. Not now.

Across the street the front door opened and closed softly. The man took a step, halted, then turned and checked the lock, once, twice. A woman peered out of the bay window, her face a white circle. He gave her a thumbs up as he climbed into the Volvo.

So. A careful man. Well, who wouldn’t be after what had happened?

The white face disappeared behind curtains and the Volvo inched off the driveway into the quiet street. Janelle started her engine awkwardly, still slumped low in her seat. She needn’t have worried. He didn’t glance her way as he headed west towards the industrial park and Thompson’s hulking yellow warehouse. Janelle slid back up in her seat and followed.

In her mind: Darrell leaning on the wall outside the pharmacy where she worked. A Saturday, five p.m. The last time she’d seen him alive.

‘See you later,’ he’d said, giving her a warm kiss on the lips and leaving her with the taste of weak cider and cigarettes.

‘Be careful!’ Janelle had called out after him.

Or had she? She liked to believe she had, told people she had.

‘“Be careful” I said. The last words I ever spoke to him. If only I’d known. If only I’d known.’

Hindsight, her mum said, was a terrible thing. Janelle knew this was meant to comfort her; it was one of her mum’s many sayings. She’d heard them all over the last few weeks. “Time is a great healer” was a particular favourite. Her mum would say it whenever Janelle cried, patting her back and stroking her hair, one eye on the TV, barely stifling a yawn.

‘Don’t upset yourself, sweetie. Time is a great healer.’

The Volvo turned right and slowed for the traffic lights even though they showed green. Janelle rolled her eyes. Following a car unseen was proving harder than she’d expected. The streets were deserted, for one thing. And he drove so damn slowly!

Had he always been such a careful man, Janelle wondered? Or had his brush with death changed him forever?

She focused her eyes on the Volvo’s tail lights. Right – left – left again – slowing – speeding up a little – now right. She allowed half her mind to go into a kind of trance. Drops on the windscreen. Wipers switched on. Swish, clunk, swish, clunk. Streetlights reflected many times on wet tarmac, the Volvo’s indicator flashing orange.

Janelle blinked and shook her head. Tiredness was catching up with her. This was her third night of watching. So far her efforts had turned up nothing of use. One trip to the local supermarket where the man held the door open for a girl with a pushchair and re-used his shopping bags, but who doesn’t these days? One visitor: his son, recognised from the inquest. Janelle had formed the opinion that this man and his wife were practically hermits. Had they always been that way?

Darrell had had loads of friends. Over a hundred people came to the funeral, the crematorium’s low-backed benches crammed tightly, a fuzz of faces, smiling, crying. The night he died had been Trickie’s birthday and the gang were meeting at the Kings Head for legal drinks before going on to a club. At the funeral, Trickie stood hunched near the back, his hood pulled up to hide the tears.

‘It’s my fault,’ he’d cried after the inquest. ‘If he hadn’t been coming to meet me …’

Janelle tried to comfort him but didn’t she have her own guilt to deal with? If she hadn’t made him wait that extra five minutes while she brushed her hair and put on lipstick. She wanted to look her best. Especially as he was going out without her. She wanted him to hold a picture in his head of his girlfriend looking good – looking fly as he would have said. But what did it matter now? He’d never even made it to the pub, hadn’t made it further than Edgemont Street near the Chinese takeaway and Pop’s Amusements.

She pictured him as he walked, that hitched-up, jumpy walk he had, iPod plugged in, humming maybe or singing along. The music would have been proper loud so he must have seen rather than heard the attack. If he’d passed by that alley five minutes earlier everything would have been so different.

Especially for the man in the Volvo.

Mr Brown. Mr Robert Brown. Such an ordinary name, Janelle thought, as she stared at the back of his head while they waited at another set of lights. Such an ordinary man. She couldn’t imagine what had marked him out as a target for the gang. Maybe it was just that – his very ordinariness. She’d done it herself, hadn’t she, her and Darrell and his friends, not really a gang but still … she’d stood on street corners and shouted at passing strangers. Darrell and his mates would never go too far, though. Not even Trickie.

Although Janelle did wonder whether Trickie still carried a knife, the one he used to brag about. She had a feeling he didn’t brag anymore.

Lost in her thoughts, it took a while for Janelle to notice that Mr Brown and his Volvo weren’t heading towards Thompson’s anymore. The industrial estate was left down Waterworks Lane half a mile back, but the Volvo was still dragging itself along, with Janelle following not too closely behind.

Now the Volvo indicated, slowed, and finally came to a halt alongside a row of cramped townhouses.

Janelle pulled into a space across the street and turned off her lights. She waited, half nervous, half curious, to see whether Mr Brown would clock her. She would notice if the same car had been behind her for her entire journey. But the man locked his car, checked it, then headed up a narrow path and knocked on a door without a backwards glance. Ha! she thought. Not such a careful man after all.

Confident now that she wouldn’t be seen, Janelle strained her neck for a better view. The door was opened by a woman – that she could make out but not much else. A flash of pink skirt, a glint of pale yellow hair, and then the door closed again, cutting off the light that had cast their shadows across the square patch of lawn.

Janelle frowned. What was he doing? He was supposed to be going to work, she was sure of it. She felt something shift inside her and her lips let out a small sound, a breathless Ah. She took in the flowers on the windowsill, the frilled and valanced curtains. She pictured the way they’d hugged at the door. And then she thought about Mrs Brown with her pinched white face at the window.

This was who Darrell had died to save? A grey, boring man who was cheating on his wife?

Janelle drove home, her knuckles white on the steering wheel. She told her mum, who shrugged.

‘What difference does it make? Leave it alone, girl. All this sneaking around and spying. It won’t bring him back, you know.’

Another of her sayings. As if Janelle, like Frankenstein, was trying to resurrect the dead. She wasn’t stupid. She knew he was gone for good. Was it so wrong to want to know that he had died for a good reason?

A frost had settled during the night and now, with a weak sun pushing through from the east, the Brown’s garden seemed full of tiny jewels. Janelle had parked slap bang in front this time. She wasn’t the one who had something to hide.

Darrell wouldn’t approve of a confrontation, but who was he to talk? He hadn’t left well alone, rushing to the rescue like that, acting the hero. Wrong place, wrong time. (Yet another of her mum’s sayings.) But he could have just walked on past. Couldn’t he?

Targeting the middle-aged man with the anorak and the brown paper takeaway bag had been a dare for a new gang-member, the inquest was told. Fourteen years old, five feet tall, something to prove. The policewoman who reported this had a huge mole on the side of her nose. Janelle hadn’t known where to look.

She figured she knew how it had happened as clearly as if she’d been there herself. A whole load of squaring up, some pushing perhaps, egos and reputations at stake. She pictured Mr Brown caught up in the middle of it, clutching his cooling chop suey to his chest.

Was he thinking about his wife at that moment? Or about his lover? Was he scared for himself, or for the young man who’d come to his rescue only to be set upon himself?

Janelle clenched her fists. The sun was warming up the glass now and the car felt bereft of air.

The Volvo appeared from her left, ponderously slow. It seemed to take an age for Mr Brown to park, inching back and forth, then locking and checking the doors twice. Six thirty a.m. He must have gone on to work after making his detour.

He hauled his frame out of the car and stretched.

Janelle was out of her car already, approaching the man, with her shoulders tense, fists still clenched by her sides. He turned and looked at her, puzzled at first, then smiling in a polite if slightly wary way as he recognised her face.

‘Janelle, isn’t it?’ he said, stepping forward and raising a hand against the low sun.

Janelle brought her own hands up, palms flat, and pushed him square in the chest.

‘Darrell died for you. He’s dead because of you. He was wonderful and kind and brave, and you – look at you! You’re nothing. You’re scum. A boring grey man with a boring job and a boring car. Is that why you’re cheating on your wife? Because your life is so boring? If Darrell had known what you were he would have left those lads to it. I wish he had. Your wife would be a widow now but she’d be better off without you – and your bit on the side.’

Janelle wiped away the spit that had gathered at the corners of her mouth. Mr Brown looked like he was struggling to catch up, one hand hovering over the middle of his chest where Janelle had pushed him, the other still shielding his eyes.

‘Bit on the side?’ he said. ‘Widow?’

‘A careful man, that’s what you seem like on the outside. Checking the locks, driving slowly. But underneath you’re not, are you? Creeping around, having an affair, walking past alleyways asking for trouble.’

‘Trouble …’

‘You must have done something to make them have a go at you. Provoked them or something. And then you let my Darrell take them on for you instead. All the while thinking of your floozy.’

She was panting now, spitting words out like bullets, her face pinched and fierce.

‘There’s been some kind of mistake,’ Mr Brown said, but Janelle had already turned away. She could see his wife’s face at the window again, two wide eyes and an O of a mouth. She got the impression that his wife was older than him, an invalid maybe. The injustice of it all became too much and she reached blindly for the door of her car, key held out in front like a dagger.

A hand on her shoulder.

Mr Brown’s careful, measured voice in her ear.

‘Please, just wait for one moment. Please. You can’t just go off like this. You’re upset.’

Janelle looked up and into his face, but all she could see was Darrell. Not the Darrell she’d known but a Darrell of the future. The earring was gone, along with the low-slung jeans and the cheeky grin. His hair was receding and grey now, the tattoo covered by a run-of-the-mill polo shirt. He’d been robbed of this, her Darrell. Growing old and boring and safe. Instead, he would always be eighteen and reckless, frozen in time, walking with a bounce along the high street, passing an alleyway and calling out, ‘Hey! Leave him alone!’

Lying on the sharp gravel, clutching at his stomach and looking up into the eyes of the man he’d never be.

Janelle looked into the old Darrell’s eyes and saw her own old-self reflected back at her. A turned-down mouth. Short, set hair.

We could have grown old together, Darrell. We would have been good together.

The pain in her chest was too fierce to contain. She pulled her eyes away and Darrell disappeared.

‘Wait,’ Mr Brown said. ‘There’s been some kind of a mix-up.’

Janelle wiped the tears from her eyes defiantly.

‘I saw you. There’s no point denying it.’ Her voice sounded unfamiliar, cold. ‘You’re nothing. Worse than nothing – a married man having an affair. Such a cliché. Not worth the dirt on my Darrell’s shoe.’

‘An affair? Why on earth would you think that?’

‘I saw you! Last night when you were supposed to be going to work.’

Darrell appeared again, her Darrell this time, standing by her side, smiling and shaking his head. ‘Janelle,’ he was saying, ‘you are a silly cow sometimes.’

Mr Brown had his puzzled expression back. The line between his eyes was a crevice. ‘My daughter, you mean? I stop off at my daughter’s house some nights to help out. She’s a single mum, you see. Little ones playing her up. I help her put them to bed. Is that who you mean? But … how …? Have you been following me?’

His daughter?

Darrell was laughing now, his mouth wide and his eyes closed. ‘You’re priceless, Janelle,’ he said, and then he faded away into the sunshine.

‘Your daughter?’ Janelle replayed the scene: red-brick house with flowers at the window – hadn’t there also been a child’s bicycle propped up against the wall? And those frilled curtains – weren’t they covered in teddy bears? Now she really thought about it, the woman in the pink skirt couldn’t have been more than twenty-five or so.

Janelle swallowed.

‘You followed me?’ Mr Brown said again.

She fingered her keys and wondered what his wife was thinking, seeing her husband outside being shouted at by a young girl. She tried to picture Darrell again but he refused to come. Stubborn as usual.

He’ll never change.

She swallowed even harder and blinked a tear away.

‘It doesn’t make any difference,’ she told the man, sticking out her chin and making her voice hard. ‘You’re still not worth it. You’re not worth dying for.’

The sun disappeared behind a cloud, and as the brittle light faded all the life seemed to seep out of Mr Brown’s body.

‘No,’ he said quietly. ‘No. I most certainly am not.’

He turned and walked towards the house, although it was more of a shuffle than a walk, Janelle saw now. And he was, actually, quite a frail man. Why, an old man, even. Working nights must be hard at his age. And looking after grandkids – that must be exhausting.

Darrell appeared again, shaking his head, not laughing this time. ‘For God’s sake, Janelle,’ he said, his voice hollow, ‘I bloody well died to protect him. Thanks a lot.’

‘I’m sorry!’ she cried. ‘I didn’t think. I just wanted to make it all OK.’

‘I know,’ Darrell told her. ‘So did I.’

Mr Brown stopped in the doorway and looked back. The front door opened and his wife reached out to him possessively.

‘It’s OK,’ he said, looking straight into Janelle’s eyes. ‘I understand,’ he told her, and then he turned and led his wife inside.

Janelle climbed into her car and started the engine. The sun crept out again, and although it illuminated all the dirt on her windscreen and the patches of rust on the bonnet, the street looked a better place for it. She put the car into gear. Darrell sat beside her and smiled, lifting up his legs to rest them on the dashboard. Janelle felt the skin on her face tighten as the tears started to dry. She tried to smile. Her eyes felt bruised. She tried again.

Darrell looked at his watch. ‘Gotta go,’ he said, the last words he’d ever spoken to her.

‘Be careful,’ she said.

‘I’m always careful,’ he told her with a grin. ‘I’m a careful man.’

Joy

He was a man who defined himself by his possessions; not so much a collector as someone who drew objects to him like a magnet. In his house – a 1920s villa, never modernised, never decorated – you would find, amongst the stacks of yellowing newspapers and shelves of ancient, unusable tools, a first edition Dickens, an infinity mirror with red, gold and blue bulbs, an original Tesla tube and fifteen types of gramophone. Except you wouldn’t find them: he would never let you in. Just as well, because his house reeked of the mackerel he cooked every Friday and unwashed towels and stale tobacco. And fresh tobacco, but that’s not as bad.

Today he returned from his weekly expedition in a state of high arousal. In his hand he held an object precisely the same shade of silver as his beard. Its surface felt smooth against his rough, over-worked fingers. He held this object lovingly, close to his heart, and before he’d even closed the door on the world, he rushed to the crowded mantel to place it gently, carefully, next to a miniature plastic brain and a postcard from Florida.

But something wasn’t right. The old man scratched his cheek with yellow fingers, his head tipped to the left as was his way when thinking through a particularly difficult problem. He shrugged off his dirty red coat and threw it on the sagging sofa. What to do … what to do … ran his thoughts, over and over. Sometimes he had to bash his head with the flat of his palm to get those pesky thoughts to move again; these days his mind could get snagged like the needle of one of those broken old gramophones.

What to do … what to do. And then he had it. The man whisked his new possession from the mantel, taking a moment to hold it close to his face, his eyes closed, a smile as beautiful as any you will ever see lingering about his mouth. Then he raced up the stairs, now imbued with the energy of a man half his age, his long silver hair flying back from his face revealing two identical patches of pink scalp on either side of his hairline.

In his bedroom he fairly leapt over the unmade bed, reaching for the most treasured space, the most private space: the bedside table. With his free hand he swept its surface clear. Objects, themselves once the most-loved, fell to the ground with thuds and rattles of protest. Reverently, his faded eyes alight once more, the man placed the piece of driftwood centre-stage. He adjusted its position once, twice, then sat back to admire his find.

Oh, how beautiful it was. The line of the wood was a gentle curve like a hand reaching out to be held. The old man stared and stared: he would never have enough time to fully appreciate it if he lived to be a hundred. But he knew in his tired old heart that this was the one, and the joy that swept through his body cleared away acres of pain. A tear slipped down his cheek, unwiped, unnoticed.

Touch

They tell me their darkest secrets. It’s because I touch them. No one touches them anymore, they are too old, too crinkled. Combing, smoothing, stroking. I am their confidant. Take Iris here. Bimonthly perm, weekly set. Her back is so hunched she has to stand up and lean forward to be rinsed. She takes my hand when I hold up the mirror. ‘You’re a good boy, Kyle,’ she says.

In fact, I’m not.

Iris has no family. She’s perfect for me. I give her a discount; even the rich ones like a bargain. Especially the rich ones. And they’re the only ones I bother with.

I hang on in there, week after week. The chemicals dry out my skin; the conversation bores me so much I have to fix a smile on my face and stop my nimble hands from slipping to their scrawny necks. I wait. Eventually it happens – it always happens, and I’m off to the next home fast. Before the will is read. Before anyone can get suspicious. Iris will be my third. Thanks to Mavis and Violet, I might have a long holiday after Iris. Work on my tan.

‘Hi there, Iris,’ I call as I stroll in, pulling my bag behind me. Iris is smiling, but not at me. George is sitting next to her, holding her hand. I never saw that one coming. It’s the touch, you see. Nobody touches them anymore. They are just so grateful, they’ll do anything for touch.

Lucky George.

I’m not bitter, but Iris gets minimal attention today. I wave at an orderly who is wheeling in a new resident. ‘Let me,’ I say. ‘I’ll show her the ropes.’ Dripping in gold, as wrinkled as an elephant, the woman repulses me in every way. Except one.

‘And who’s this lovely lady?’ I give her my best grin and take her hand in mine.

So Many Children

Lisa shifted her leg to get the blood flowing again. Assuming a squat position like this had probably been a mistake but she loved the view it gave her – she could almost be there with her baby in its secret, slumbering world.

When little Katie had been asleep for more than an hour, her breathing soft puffs of air, Lisa hauled herself to bed. She slept with the baby monitor inches from her pillow. She slept fitfully, in short bursts, waking from indescribable dreams with eyes stretched wide and muscles taut. She always left the bedroom light on.

Each new day brought fresh challenges to face and obstacles to overcome. Lisa knew some people would call her an overprotective mother but to her the phrase sounded ridiculous – how could a mother be overprotective? A baby was helpless, dependent upon its parents for its very survival. Having only one parent meant Katie’s world was twice as perilous. Lisa had to be doubly vigilant.

After four hours of sleep Lisa awoke to the gurgling sound that served as her alarm call. She hurried to take Katie from her cot, then walked her through the narrow flat into the kitchen. With the baby strapped safely in her high chair, Lisa made breakfast – Katie’s first and then her own quick slice of toast – all the while chatting and singing and watching Katie’s smooth, calm face for signs of upset. She rarely saw any. To Lisa’s endless relief, Katie was quite possibly the happiest baby ever born.

When Katie had first started to speak her own babbling nonsense-language, Lisa had run straight to her Baby Bible. Was this normal? Too soon? Too late? Should she talk back in the same way? There was always something new to challenge her; a test lay around every corner. Lisa knew if she failed just one of these tests she might lose her baby. She couldn’t ever let that happen.

Katie smeared the mashed banana over her face and then flicked the rest across the kitchen like an impressionist artist. She turned herself around as if to gauge Lisa’s reaction, absently rubbing more yellow sludge into her wispy hair.

Lisa paused and stuck out a sharp hip, balancing one hand on it and the other on the kitchen worktop. ‘You’re a messy little poppet, aren’t you?’

Katie gurgled happily as she banged her plastic plate and cup together.

‘And musical as well! You have endless talents, my darling.’ Lisa began to wipe the banana up from the floor and jumped as a lump landed in her eye. She peered up at Katie who beamed proudly. ‘Thank you, madam. Does that suit me, do you think?’

At times like these Lisa experienced an almost painful sensation of happiness. Her life with Katie was perfect, but perfection was fragile and took so much energy to maintain. Lisa, sitting back on her heels and surveying the scene around her, knew she should simply relax and enjoy it. But her enjoyment was destroyed the moment she allowed herself to think – what if?

After lunch they made a trip to the library. This was one of the few places Lisa felt safe and the only place in the area where anyone knew her name. She had chosen their new location carefully: somewhere small enough to allow her to fit in, but large enough to remain unnoticed.

‘Over here!’ one of the other mums called out as Lisa pushed the stroller through the library doors.

‘We saved you a seat.’ A manicured hand waved at a brightly coloured cushion on the floor. ‘Katie and Harry can sit together.’

Lisa paused, searching through her repertoire of polite refusals for one which would cause the least offence. The woman was nice enough, it was nothing personal. She just didn’t want to make friends.It wasn’t fair of her to stand in the way of Katie’s development, though, and the Baby Bible said that playing with other children was good for infants. Lisa wondered, not for the first time, what she would do when Katie was old enough to talk, to tell her own story. What would she remember? In a few years they’d move on anyway. Perhaps it would be more of a kindness not to let her make too many friends here.

Lisa pretended she hadn’t heard and settled Katie quickly into the circle laid out for story time. One of the librarians read the story, a big-bosomed lady in her fifties with too-short hair and a weathered face. She loved children, that much was clear, and kept a bag of props to use with the storytelling.

Today’s story was The Old Woman Who Lived In A Shoe. The librarian pulled out a giant felt shoe and set it on the floor. Young Harry made straight for it, wailing as his mother dragged it out of his hands.

‘Let the others have a go, Harry,’ she said.

Lisa thought she had been right to keep Katie away from this child.

Sitting just close enough to grab her daughter if necessary, she listened absently to the story. People who had so many children they didn’t know what to do with them were anathema to Lisa. Of course they were. She thought back to that family: children coming out of every orifice it seemed, each of them dirtier and scrappier than the last. And the mother! She wore her incompetence like a grubby housecoat, brandishing it for anyone to see.

‘I just can’t cope,’ she would say to any random passer-by. ‘It’s Dave, he just keeps getting me pregnant. What can I do? He’s so virile.’

Except she pronounced it ‘vrile’ and Lisa thought she meant that he was vile. Which he was: tattooed and ear-ringed, foul-mouthed and loud. If he worked at all no one knew where, yet they had satellite TV and ate takeaway pizzas and went on holiday like anybody else.

Lisa’s husband told her not to be a snob. Which was unfair, of course. It was the children she cared about, that was all. One night Lisa said to him, ‘I saw Carly today. You know, Carly and Dave? You’ll never guess what – she’s actually pregnant again!’

She had felt personally wounded at the sight of that stomach pushing against the thin fabric of Carly’s skin-tight sweater. Pregnancy didn’t stop that woman wearing her favourite clothes. Not like Lisa, who had relinquished her tailored skirts and slim-fitting jeans immediately she fell, adopting the elasticated denim trousers and smock shirts she considered appropriate – not to mention comfortable.

Nature is a weird creature. That some are allowed to procreate with impunity, while others … While others have to struggle, and sometimes that struggle costs them their relationship, their health and very nearly their sanity.

Still, that was all in the past now. Lisa knew that dwelling on such things did her no good, and what was bad for her was bad for her baby. She didn’t need the Baby Bible to tell her this, it was simple common sense.

When the stories were over they left quickly, not taking time to browse the shelves today. Lisa couldn’t risk being drawn into a conversation and she didn’t have the energy to be rude.

Outside it had started to rain. Sharp, determined droplets struck the pavement with force, creating rivers along the roadside and a misty, damp smell in the air. Lisa cursed herself for not bringing an umbrella. Another obstacle, another test she had failed. At least Katie was wrapped up warm and her stroller had a built-in plastic hood. She tucked her daughter in securely, fastened the hood and then pulled her own jacket around her tightly. It was cold for May. Or maybe she simply felt it more; she had lost so much weight lately.

It felt strange to be thin. She had always been average in size, as in everything else, and her weight was just a fact, not something to worry or obsess about. But as the softness of her flesh receded and the bones began to poke against her skin, Lisa found she enjoyed the sensation. She felt like a greyhound, lithe and sleek and ready to run. And it was good that there was less of her. It felt easier to disappear.

As Lisa shrank so Katie expanded. At thirteen months she was big for her age, a testament to how well she was cared for. Lisa gave her baby everything she needed and more; putting herself second seemed natural, the right thing to do. Her husband hadn’t agreed with this philosophy.

‘When the baby comes we must still make time for ourselves. Remember that we have a life as a couple, as people, not just as parents.’

Lisa regarded him in astonishment. ‘What’s the point of having a child if we plan to carry on as before?’ she had asked.

But he accused her of deliberately misunderstanding him and another row followed. A row he won, as usual. But, thought Lisa now, if he had won the rows he’d certainly lost the war. She was the one with the family, not him. She was the one with the fulfilling life.

As she pushed the stroller home, trying to stay under the trees and out of the worst of the rain, her thoughts went back to Carly. It was tragic for her that she’d lost her baby, even Lisa couldn’t deny this. But she had so many other children, it was hard to believe she would really have missed one that much – surely yet another child would have been a burden not a joy. Besides, Dave being so ‘vrile’, Carly was probably pregnant again already. It wasn’t the end of the world.

When Lisa had lost her baby it had felt worse than the end of the world. Only three months into her pregnancy; they told her the baby had been nothing more than a cluster of cells. Not a person. Not yet. Lisa knew this was a lie. Lies don’t make you feel better. The only thing that would make her feel better was to get pregnant again immediately.

Unfortunately, Robert had other ideas.

He’d said, ‘Maybe it’s for the best.’ And then, ‘I’m not sure I was really ready for parenthood.’

Lisa couldn’t forgive him. She had been ready. It wasn’t called ‘expecting’ for nothing. She was expecting a new life to grow inside her, and then outside her, becoming a separate person, part genetic hybrid, part wild-card. She expected sleepless nights, and toys underfoot, and mess and noise and chaos. When the baby inside her wasn’t strong enough to live her hopes were destroyed. She expected to be able to try again.

A memory of her husband’s face on the day she’d left him floated into her mind. So shocked, uncomprehending, flabbergasted! And yet, hadn’t Lisa always made it perfectly clear she wanted to be part of a family? A family of three or four or even five, not two.

Which, of course, was exactly what she and Katie were: a family of two. And this combination suited Lisa just fine. She pushed home through the now drizzling rain, eager for the warmth and safety of their cramped flat.

Another face floated out of the past, an old neighbour – Lisa couldn’t remember her name. She had a halo of frizzy ginger hair and a round, smiling face, shiny with rain.

But this face wasn’t a ghost from the past. It was right here in the flesh, walking towards her on the path under the trees. Here, in this town, miles away from where it belonged.

Lisa scanned frantically for somewhere to hide. A lorry blocked the roadside on her left and a car, parked at a slapdash angle, stopped what could have been an escape route up an alleyway. Maybe she won’t recognise me, thought Lisa, with the weight loss and the dyed hair. She set her head down low and, as the neighbour passed by, bent to see to Katie.

‘Catherine! Is that really you?’

There was nowhere to hide. For a crazy moment Lisa thought about pushing the woman to the floor and running away. She quickly dismissed the idea. What about Katie, for one thing? An image of a scarecrow-thin woman streaming down the street, hair soaking wet, clothes stuck to her back, with a stroller held out in front like a lifeline passed through Lisa’s mind. She shook it away. Looking up from Katie’s stroller, she said, ‘Hi! Fancy seeing you here!’ in her best, fake happy voice.

‘It is you! Oh my God, I don’t believe it. Catherine Jenkins. I thought it was you, right from down the street. I said to myself “That’s Catherine Jenkins, that is”, and I was right.’

Lisa nodded, trying not to flinch at the sound of the name she had shed over a year ago. Now she was Lisa Marshall. Chosen randomly, adopted successfully. She even felt like a Lisa.

‘How are you?’ the woman was asking, leaning in to get a look at Katie.

Lisa turned the stroller away, out of her line of sight. ‘Good. I’m good.’ She was already calculating how long it would take her to pack up the few belongings they’d accumulated back at the flat. Lisa had kept their inventory low just in case a situation like this arose. She’d considered the possibilities endlessly. She just hadn’t expected it to happen so soon, or with so little warning.

‘And who’s this little one?’ Her ex-neighbour was still trying to get a good look at Katie. Doreen. That was her name.

Katie started to cry a little. Lisa picked her up and cuddled her closely. The rain had all but stopped now and a sticky sun warmed their faces. Lisa shivered.

‘This is my daughter, Veronica,’ she lied. At least that way she wouldn’t have to change Katie’s name again when they moved on. Where to next? It would have to be somewhere much further away this time, maybe Scotland. That was about as far away as they could go without a passport. But then, wouldn’t that be an obvious place for people to look?

‘Your daughter?’ said Doreen, uncertainly. ‘But didn’t you … I mean, your baby?’ Lisa watched and waited while the older woman squirmed. Finally, Doreen spat it out. ‘I thought that you had lost your baby,’ she said, and then arranged her face to look contrite.

A dog. That’s what she looked like, Lisa decided. A stupid little dog, sitting on its hind legs begging for food. Doreen was begging for information – she always had been a gossip. The thing about gossips was, they usually believed whatever they were told. At least, Lisa hoped this were true.

‘Lost my baby! Wherever did you get that idea? As you can see, Veronica is perfectly well.’

She desperately wanted to get back to the flat and start packing. She had the train timetable pinned to the noticeboard and enough money to live off for a few months stashed away, along with Katie’s nappies. She’d done well out of the divorce – and rightly so. But one day soon, when they were settled again, Lisa knew she’d have to get a job of some kind. Even living as frugally as they did the money would run out sooner rather than later. Especially with the added expense of another relocation.

Doreen was looking at them both with a confused expression. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘You must think I’m terrible! I must have heard wrong. And then you left so suddenly, just disappeared …’

‘I didn’t disappear. As you can see – I’m alive and well.’

‘Of course you are. And then there was all that upset about poor Carly’s baby. I must be getting mixed up, that’s all.’

Lisa tensed, shoulders heading skyward, at the mention of that woman’s name. She scrutinised Doreen’s face. What did she know, or think she knew? But her old neighbour’s expression was blank and open. She had no idea.

‘What happened to Carly’s baby?’ Lisa asked, as she knew she was expected to.

‘Didn’t you hear? I suppose you’d already gone by the time it happened.’ Doreen shuffled closer and Lisa tried not to recoil. ‘Her baby, her poor little girl. Less than a month old. It was tragic. Snatched, she was! Right from under her nose. Only turned her back on it for one minute and the poor little mite was gone.’

A lie, although one Doreen believed. Lisa happened to know for a fact that Carly had left her baby for longer than a minute. It was more like fifteen. There was no mention in the papers that she’d been inside a betting shop when it happened, either. It hadn’t been difficult to find the right opportunity. Carly had given her many. She had so many children, always trailing behind her with toy pushchairs and bikes and dolls, crying and arguing, snotty faces and grey clothes. It would take her a while to miss one, Lisa had figured.

In this, perhaps, she had been wrong.

There would be other people who were sharper than Doreen. Lisa couldn’t take the risk that her whereabouts would soon be known. She had planned the whole thing so carefully, making sure she moved away before the child was born, then returning secretly to watch and wait. She had planned it so suspicion wouldn’t fall on her immediately but if people started to talk, putting two and two together, it would only be a matter of time. And if she went to prison who would care for Katie? Not that Carly woman with her ever increasing brood. Katie needed love and attention all to herself.

Lisa placed her daughter carefully in the stroller and pulled back the plastic hood. The sun was getting hotter now, steam rising from the pavements. She said, ‘I have to be going. It was nice seeing you.’

Doreen smiled, a wide clueless smile. ‘We could meet up again. My sister lives around the corner, I visit here often.’

Lisa nearly crossed herself. ‘Oh, I’m sure I’ll bump into you. I really have to go. Bye, Doreen.’

She started along the path, moving out from the safety of the trees. Doreen stepped after her and laid a hand on her arm, holding her back. Lisa turned around, suddenly terrified.

‘I forgot to mention,’ said Doreen. ‘I still see Robert sometimes. It’s great that he’s moved on too – and the new baby will be a little step-brother or sister for Veronica, won’t it? I’ll say hello to him from you next time I see him, shall I? Bye now. Bye.’

She waved and blew a kiss to Katie before walking away. Lisa, rooted to the spot, watched Doreen getting smaller and smaller until she disappeared from view. She couldn’t seem to move. Passers-by cooed at Katie who gurgled back contentedly. It was only when the rain started up again and Katie began to cry that Lisa finally roused herself and directed the stroller towards home.

Dear Jean

Dear Jean,

I won’t lower myself to comment on the manner of your departure yesterday. I will restrict this correspondence to practical matters only. But I will say that I disagree with you strongly – I am not an ‘emotional vacuum’, as you so eloquently put it. Still, that is your view, and your justification for throwing away thirty years of marriage, so I suppose there is nothing I can do about it now.

Despite your assertion that you ‘never want to see me again as long as you live’, we will need to meet to discuss matters such as the house. (You can’t seriously expect me to sell up and move now I am retired?) Are you planning on telling the children of your decision or shall I? There is also the matter of your blasted dog – you went on and on about getting it for months and now you leave the thing behind! Not allowed pets where you’re going, you said. What kind of place is it, anyway?

No, that’s nothing to do with me. I don’t want to know anything about your new situation. You have made your bed and now you must lie in it. I refuse to feel guilty about having this enormous house all to myself, despite the fact that I rattle around in it somewhat now you are gone …

Your dog is whining to be taken out so I suppose I must comply. I really am perplexed by this whole situation, Jean, and must say you have surprised me. I never thought you capable of such cruelty.

Roger

Dear Jean,

Well! I feel compelled to put pen to paper as you refused to let me say my piece on the phone just now. Where did you pick up these words like ‘entitled’ and ‘recompense’? Have you really been to see a lawyer? Already?

Most of all I resent your accusation that I should have seen this coming. What man can be expected to read his wife’s mind, especially when she spends all her time out of the house going to art classes and God knows what? You gave me hints, did you? Well, I’m sorry I was dense but I thought we were happy, in our own way.

The girls are devastated, although no doubt they’ll take your side when you present your case – you certainly seem to have it all worked out if today’s conversation was anything to go by. There is nothing I can do, it seems, but go along with whatever you want. I put my foot down at selling the house, though. I worked hard to provide for my family and I’ll be damned if I’ll be held to ransom for it now.

As I said, your arrangements are of no interest to me, but I was surprised to find your phone being answered by a man. Was he some kind of trade’s person? If you are in a fix, Jean, I would still be willing to do minor repairs for you, despite how you have behaved.

Yours, Roger

Dear Jean,

I’m afraid I have some rather bad news. Your dog got himself run over yesterday. I would have phoned and told you in person but I feel you would rather I didn’t. Your voice the last time we talked was decidedly frosty.

Anyway, the blasted animal got away from me on the main road by Sainsbury’s. Before you start, it wasn’t my fault. I had to go shopping; the cupboards were empty and I’d run out of those inadequate ‘ready meals’ Sandra brought in. It was most distressing, finding my way around that huge warehouse of a store, and I was in quite a state when I came out. The dog (I refuse to use its given name – Tinky just isn’t the thing for a grown man to call out in public) was in a frenzy of excitement and what with all the shopping bags and my walking stick (yes, the arthritis has flared up again), I lost hold of him.

The vet said it would have been instant so there’s no need to upset yourself over it. I must admit, the house does seem even emptier now. Anyway, I thought I’d have a little ceremony for him on Sunday. He’s in a bag in the shed at the moment. I thought the spot under the cherry tree would be suitable. Perhaps you’d like to come along, say goodbye properly. You could pick up those things you said you needed – I didn’t mean it when I said I wouldn’t let you in, Jean, and I haven’t really changed the locks.

Anyway, must go now. All the frozen ready meals I bought have defrosted on the dining room carpet.

Yours truly, Roger

Dear Jean,

First of all I must apologise for my behaviour on Sunday. Whatever the provocation, there is no excuse for that kind of childish display of temper – and tipping a drink over you was unforgivable. I hope your dress isn’t ruined. Wherever did you buy it from, Jean? I’ve never seen you in anything so – becoming.

The girls have told me that I must ‘move on’. I’m not quite sure what this means. I hope it’s not another veiled reference to selling the house because I am remaining firm on that. I have put years of work into this garden, and now Tinky is buried here as well – you can’t expect me to hand it over to someone else at my age.

The girls also tell me you have a new ‘friend’. I am not so stupid as to be incapable of working out what this means, and I suppose this ‘friend’ is also the person who answers your phone whenever I call. For the record, I don’t think calling one’s own wife two or three times a day counts as stalking!

Perhaps you could ask your ‘friend’ to keep his opinions to himself. Also his hands – you are still my wife, Jean, and we had thirty years together and two beautiful children. Was I so terrible as a husband? I worked hard, I provided well – maybe you could enlighten me as to what I did that was so wrong?

Roger

Dear Jean,

I wonder whether you could see your way clear to calling round one afternoon, maybe on the way back from your art class. I realised the other day that I have never seen any of your drawings and I would like to. I am aware that I should have shown more interest before.

The thing is, Jean, I need to ask your advice about something. I’ve had a letter from the council about some bill or other – it seems it hasn’t been paid. I’m afraid I have no idea what to do about it; it was you who used to take care of that kind of thing. I never realised how much work it was, dealing with all these bills and direct debits and goodness knows what. Maybe you could give me a brief lesson, now that I am on my own for good. Am I, Jean? Am I really on my own for good?

I’m not sure I can do this anymore, my love. I’m afraid being brave isn’t working quite so well. Sandra told me to wash my clothes the other day and I had to tell her – I had to admit to my own daughter – that I have no idea how to use the washing machine. She said I wasn’t coping without you. She also said that you are coping perfectly well without me. That doesn’t surprise me, Jean. It is clear to me now that I always needed you far more than you needed me. I just wish I’d noticed it sooner. I wish I’d appreciated you. I wish …

Oh, Jean, please come home! I can’t bear being here without you. All those years of working late and not being – what was it you called it? Emotionally available. All those years of not being emotionally available to you were for this – for our retirement. So we could spend time together in our lovely house, drinking tea in our lovely garden, shaking our heads at the rest of the world. I must have lost sight of it along the way somehow. I must have forgotten how to talk to you, how to show you my feelings.

But I remember now, Jean. I remember how beautiful you are first thing in the morning when you look out of the window and see a robin on the bird table. I remember the sound of your laugh when you hear something funny on the radio. I used to find it funny too, Jean. I had just forgotten how to laugh.

I’m sorry this page is ruined by the little splashes of water. Please ignore them and think only of this – we have a solid foundation, you and I, and if you are willing to give me a second chance I promise I won’t let you down. Please come home, Jean. If you decide you really can’t then I will sell the house if that’s what you want. I couldn’t live here without you anyway.

Yours, with love, Roger

Dear Jean,

Thank you so much for meeting me yesterday. You looked beautiful, and I felt proud to be in the company of such a clever, accomplished woman. The lunch was very nice and yes, I would like to meet there again next week. I had thought of suggesting we went to the museum after – only if you have time, of course. There is an exhibition by a local artist and I thought it might be of interest to you.

I hope you liked the flowers – I know roses are your favourite. I have planted a new rose bush in the garden – near to where we buried Tinky – and it should be flowering by the summer. Maybe you will be home to see it. I know you said you couldn’t make any promises, my darling Jean, but I am going to allow myself to hope. I felt something new yesterday and, by the look in your eyes, you felt it too. I felt – happy. Thank you, Jean. Thank you for giving us the chance to be truly happy.

All my love, Roger

Gridlocked

Driving home. The sudden snowfall caught everybody out and now the city’s roads are gridlocked. Inside my car, hot air blows in my face and on my feet; outside the snow continues to fall and the whiteout gives the darkness a glittery edge. Up ahead, two cars collide, sliding gently, irrevocably, into each other. The drivers get out, stamping cold feet and hugging themselves; no aggression, just puffs of frozen air and resignation.

Stationary now, the cars alongside me like igloos with half-moon windscreens. Solitary drivers talk into phones, explaining, complaining. I have a phone; it’s right here in my briefcase. I don’t bother to get it out. Everybody else in this snowbound city has someone at home who cares that they’ll be late, the kids won’t get picked up, the dinner in the oven will be ruined. Not me.

Time on my hands, time to think: something I avoid if I can. I think about how I never intended this to happen. ‘Hold me,’ she said, and she laid down a path too slippery for a man like me. Like those cars up ahead, we moved towards each other slowly, in stages, unable to stop but painfully aware of the danger ahead. My counsellor tells me to take responsibility. I laugh. I have no idea what this means. I suffer, is what I do. I sit here in my car, and I watch life going on around me. Love and friendship, camaraderie and conversation. It’s a club I belonged to once.

I turn off my wipers and the snow drifts down and hides the world from me. So considerate. Inside my bubble, I play a game: all is as it was before. I reach for my phone. Maybe this time she’ll listen to me.

One To Keep

‘Mummy, what’s a new year revolution?’

I beckon my daughter onto my lap. Her brother climbs up too; they are warmer than hot water bottles and smell of chocolate and milk and citrus shampoo. Their presence is a comfort I sorely need.

As I cling to my children our eyes drift, as one, to the photograph on top of the piano.

But no one speaks his name.

Outside, snow swirls aimlessly and our garden is a fairy grotto with twinkling lights strewn across the trees. I will leave them up this year, I think. For the children. Not because I can’t face the effort of taking them down alone.

‘A new year’s resolution?’ I say, and I stroke two hard little heads, their hair as soft as sea mist. ‘Well, it’s a bit like a promise. A promise you try very hard not to break.’

But not always. And I smile to myself then, a smile my husband would have understood well.

Five years earlier

31 December 10.55 p.m.

A man walks into a bar and orders a whisky on the rocks. Morose, you’d call him, like all the joy has been sucked out of his bones. We get a lot of that in PJ’s – it’s the kind of place you come not just to drown your sorrows but to dig a hole and bury them as well. I can’t help the quality of the clientele, and the decor wasn’t my choice either. I’d have squashy sofas not plastic bar stools; funky colours and a great long mirror behind the bar, not tobacco-brown walls and a dusty pool table.

So this man, there are two unusual things about him. One: he’s uncommonly good looking. Behind that gloomy expression lurks a fine mouth and soulful eyes. His shoulders are broad, and his posture doesn’t quite manage to hide a muscular build. Oh, I’m not so jaded I can’t recognise quality when I see it.

Two: he’s not drinking his whisky. Staring at it, yes. But not drinking. Not only is this bad for business, in PJ’s this behaviour is considered downright weird.

‘What’s up?’ I say, nonchalantly polishing the bar with a worn old towel.

‘I’ve messed up my life,’ he tells me.

Mid-wipe, I freeze. Did I hear right? Most of the guys in here, if asked ‘What’s up?’ they answer Nothin’ or make some wise-crack comment like The sky, or Your skirt, if I’m lucky. Ha. Very funny.

I’ve messed up my life? This guy deserves closer inspection.

I get myself a coke and pull up a stool behind the bar. On the wall-mounted TV a man with a permatan introduces a band I’ve never heard of. I grab the remote and drop the volume, turn to the man and say, ‘Tell me more.’

He says, ‘It’s new year’s eve.’

Well, I know it. We have a late licence and I’m here working and all. We have precisely three customers: two regulars and him. And if he’s found his way here tonight that can only mean one thing.

‘Break up with the girlfriend, did we?’

He laughs, and I see that he does indeed have a fine mouth, and good teeth to go in it.

‘No girlfriend. That one I managed to get right.’ Sombre again, he stares down at his drink. ‘But not this one. This is the one to keep.’

Now I’m confused. He seems to be talking nonsense and I’m disappointed, to be honest. My friends think I’m so lucky to work in my parents’ bar – loads of guys, is what they imagine, lots of attention. It’s not so. The regulars are either old or broken, or usually both. My parents are too old to work nights anymore so even if I got a date – fat chance – we’d have to meet at PJ’s.

Lately I’ve been thinking of ditching it. Just telling Mum and Dad the time’s come for them to sell up and retire, and then I can go off and do what I want. What I want is to have a normal life: a husband, a family. I’ve been on my own too long.

The man is watching the silent TV, and I am watching him. Suddenly he says, ‘A year ago today my dad died.’

Well, this is more like it. A bit of conversation – a chance for me to show what a good listener I am. ‘What did he die of?’ I ask.

‘Alcohol killed him,’ he says. We both look down at his whisky. The rocks have melted.

Myself, I rarely drink. Occasionally we lose a regular to some alcohol-related illness and I always feel in some way to blame.

‘It’s a tough night for you,’ I offer.

‘You’ve no idea,’ he says.

‘So tell me.’

I don’t expect him to answer, but when he starts to talk I see that this is what he needs: someone to talk to. Someone just like me.

‘My dad,’ he says, ‘had been ill for a long time but he managed to hang on till Christmas. And then, on new year’s eve, he just ... The last thing he said to me – these were his dying words, mind – he said, “Every year I want you to make two resolutions. One to break and one to keep.” And then he died.’

The man looks at his drink; his eyes glisten amber in the dull light. ‘And now, I’m about to let him down. It’s been a hard year, Dad,’ he says suddenly, loudly, ‘but I can’t do it anymore.’ And then he picks up his whisky and downs it in one.

He says nothing for a while. I wave goodbye to old Jack when he leaves but I don’t return his Happy New Year. I can’t bring myself to break the silence. This job has made me perceptive, I guess. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that giving up alcohol was last year’s resolution, what with his dad dying and all.

He gestures for another and I oblige. And, because it is a festive occasion, I pour myself one too.

‘So, what was the other one?’ I ask finally.

He looks at me blankly. His eyes are those of a lost child.

‘The one you were supposed to break? I guessing that giving up the devil’s liquid was the one to keep, so what resolution did you make that you planned to break anyway?’

And what was the point of that, exactly?

He smiles just a little, and looks at me, really looks at me, possibly for the first time. ‘You’re a sharp one, aren’t you?’

I give a little shrug. I’m aware of myself all of a sudden, the shape of my face, the heat in my cheeks, the way my hair is tucked behind my ears, making them stick out just a little. I raise an eyebrow.

‘To find a wife,’ he says quietly.

‘You made a new year’s resolution to find a wife?’ My hope, such as it is, begins to soar.

‘I made a resolution not to find a wife,’ he corrects. ‘That was the one to break.’

I look at the smoke-stained clock above the bar. ‘Sorry,’ I tell him with a smile, ‘but you’ve just broken one of your resolutions with our old friend Glenfiddich here. That means you have just thirty minutes to keep the other one.’

The blank look again. I decide to go for a different approach, make sure I’m not wasting my efforts here.

‘What do you do for a living?’

‘Mechanic.’

‘Where do you live?’

‘What is this?’

But I get it out of him all the same – years of practice. Until a year ago he lived with his dad, running their MOT business together. He’s single, solvent and very sad, but the last of these I think I can help with.

‘Well,’ I say at ten to twelve, ‘you’d better get out there. The streets are full of women just waiting to make their own resolutions, and I bet quite a few of them are looking for a husband.’

He shakes his head. ‘The point is, I don’t want a wife. My dad and me, we were fine on our own.’ He’s on his third whisky. I have a sudden sick-making thought that maybe he shouldn’t be drinking – His dad? Maybe it’s hereditary? – but I push the thought away.

‘Ah,’ I say smugly, ‘but I’ve got you on a technicality. You’ve got to honour your father’s wishes. And you have – eight minutes left.’

He smiles at me now, his posture a little straighter, his eyes a little brighter. He says, ‘I don’t think I need to go anywhere at all.’

Five years later

31 December 4.30 p.m.

I stroke my children’s heads and I think about their father and about how much I miss him. He was right, of course. He should have stuck to his guns, tried harder, that year and every year since. You can’t escape what fate has in store, although we kidded ourselves for a while that you could.

‘Mummy,’ says my son, ‘when is Daddy coming home?’

My new year’s resolutions? I will always be there for my children. That’s the one to keep.

And the one to break? I will always tell my children the truth.

‘Soon,’ I say softly. ‘Soon.’

Acknowledgements

As always, I’d like to say a big thank you to my wonderful husband Jez, for his constant support and belief in me. Thanks to all my lovely readers – without you there would be no point writing a single word. I’d also like to thank Chris Howard for yet another fantastic cover, Jude White for her excellent proofreading, and all the followers of my blog – your comments and support keep me going.

Thank you for reading A Life Unpredicted. If you enjoyed this book, please join my mailing list so I can tell you about new releases, giveaways and special promotions. I often send out exclusive short stories to the lovely people on my mailing list, and you’ll always be the first to hear big news!

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About the author

Joanne Phillips lives in rural Shropshire with her husband and young daughter. She’s the author of romantic comedies Can’t Live Without, The Family Trap and Cupid’s Way, and the Flora Lively series of contemporary mysteries. Can’t Live Without was an Amazon top 20 bestseller in 2012 and her books regularly appear on category bestseller lists. Before becoming a writer, Joanne had jobs as diverse as hairdresser, air hostess and librarian, but now divides her time between writing and finding creative ways to avoid housework. She’s a fan of super-dark chocolate, iced coffee and Masterchef.

Books by Joanne Phillips

Can’t Live Without

The Family Trap

Cupid’s Way

Flora Lively Investigates:

Murder at the Maples

Short story collection:

A Life Unpredicted and other stories

Novelette:

The Silence of Juliet Mann