I Looked Away, page 33
‘You’ve paid your dues,’ she says gently. ‘That’s the other thing about grandchildren. They accept us for what we are.’
I hope she’s right. I’m not certain that my daughter will ever really forgive me for taking away her father. And why should she? It was a heinous crime.
So far, Josh, with his smooth skin and constant air of excitement (‘Wow, Ganny. Look at that squirrel!’) doesn’t know what I did. Yet.
I’ve already agreed with my children that we will tell him when he is a little older. I don’t want Josh finding out about his grandfather without being prepared. Discovered secrets can be the most harmful of all. I’m dreading his reaction, to be honest. What if he can’t forgive me? I’m also still terrified in case my mind turns against itself again. Supposing I find myself in someone else’s skin without knowing? But I’m trying to live one day at a time. The psychologist says it’s the best way. ‘Nothing in life is certain,’ she says to me. ‘But that’s all right.’ She says this with an extra emphasis on the last two words so it sounds like a rhythm. I repeat this over and over in my head as a reassuring mantra. It helps me believe that there was nothing wrong with me as a child after all. What was wrong was Sheila’s treatment of me, and then being blamed for Michael’s death, which led to everything else that happened to me. At least, this is the only way I can deal with it.
‘Are we going?’ Josh asks now, bringing me back to our mission.
‘We sure are.’ I’ve found myself lapsing into the odd American phrase thanks to watching cartoons on television with him. I carry the food box under one arm and hold Josh with my right hand. He tries to pull away.
‘I’m old enough to walk on my own, Ganny.’
‘I know you are,’ I lie, ‘but it would be nice if you held my hand to look after me.’
I’m only saying this to persuade him to stay put. Josh is going through an independent stage when he wants to do everything on his own. Readily now, he agrees, and we walk towards the church hall to deliver our contribution to the weekly food bank.
I’m constantly amazed by the different kinds of people who turn up. Some, you can tell from their clothes, are on the road. We try to find them accommodation but many say they’re ‘not bothered’. Often, as I know all too well, this means they’re scared of filling in official forms that might reveal their past.
Then there are the embarrassed-looking parents with children in pushchairs or babes in arms who seem for all the world as though they could belong in a supermarket queue, able to buy their own stuff. But as our coordinator says, poverty comes in all shapes and sizes nowadays.
When I first offered to help out, I was quite open about my own background. I didn’t want any whispers. My voluntary job is a reminder of that other side of life that I glimpsed so briefly on the road. Every now and then I will see something, like a woman foraging desperately through bins for discarded sandwiches or pizza crusts, that stirs a faint recollection. But it’s still all so unclear. Maybe I’ll never know how much of it is real and how much I’ve created, having heard all the people who testified at my trial. At times, when I try to settle down into my warm bed at night, I feel the walls and roof closing in on me and a strange desire to take to the road again.
‘I’ve been through what you have,’ I tell them. They don’t believe me until I go into detail. Then something flickers in their eyes. They see that I was one of them once and they allow us to give them the help they need. It might be emergency accommodation or it could be a hot drink and a meal before they go on their way, armed with supplies like a thermal sleeping sheet.
I always keep my eyes peeled for Jo, my alter ego. Sometimes I fancy I see her in the food-bank queue but that would be too much of a coincidence. I hope she is all right. I have nightmares about someone hurting her. I like to think she’s been rehoused and is warm and dry. But maybe she doesn’t want that. There’s a danger in putting your own hopes and expectations on other people. I know all about that.
‘When we’ve been to the food bank, can we go swimming?’ asks Josh, running along by my side.
This is something else I’ve had to steel myself for. When you live by the sea, it’s even more important to learn to swim.
‘OK,’ I say. ‘But you might want to stay in the hall for a bit. There’s a bring-and-buy fair and there could be some trains.’
Josh is mad on steam engines. My little bungalow is stuffed with toys for him, including a train set.
‘Have you got any of your tables there?’ asked Josh.
‘Sure have!’
I’d kept up with my mosaics except that, instead of using broken glass and ceramics for the table tops, I now use shells. Josh loves helping me. The proceeds go to the food bank. I find it therapeutic. Meanwhile, Alastair’s mother, with whom I keep in touch, tells me that he’s going to be self-publishing his poetry on the internet, under his street name of Tim White. I’ve promised to order a copy when it’s out.
The church hall is packed. Josh and I deliver our box to the food-bank corner and then browse the stalls. ‘Hold my hand,’ I remind him, but he is tugging me towards a stand. ‘Look, Ganny!’
In fact it’s not so much a stand as a large blackboard lying on the ground. Before us lies an intricate map of Exeter, complete with a picture of the rather beautiful railway station and a train track winding its way through the countryside to the sea.
‘Don’t touch,’ I warn my grandson. ‘It’s made of chalk. You might rub it off.’
‘It’s all right,’ says a voice. ‘I can draw it on again. Besides, I like it when kids join in. Want a go yourself, sonny?’
I know that deep tone. Startled, I look up. I find myself staring at a pair of bright-blue eyes and a tanned, weathered face.
Something moves inside me.
‘Jo?’ He looks shocked.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘Do we know each other?’
‘Of course,’ he murmurs. ‘They said in the papers that you’d forgotten who you were.’
A prickle of unease runs through me. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘It’s Steve. We were … friends, once,’ he says. ‘I knew you as Jo then,’ he adds.
Luckily Josh is picking up a yellow chalk to make a second sun. ‘I don’t remember that time,’ I whisper, drawing him away so we can speak more openly. One of my friends from the homeless committee sees us talking and takes the hint, leaning down to offer some more chalks to Josh.
The stranger is looking at me as if trying to make sure I am speaking the truth. ‘You don’t recall how we parted, then?’
I’m beginning to feel deeply embarrassed now. ‘No.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ he says turning away.
‘But it does,’ I burst out. I don’t know why I am saying this. As far as I’m concerned, I’ve never seen this man before in my life. But there’s something about him which pulls me to him. And I can’t help sensing he feels the same way.
‘I need you to tell me …’ I say. ‘How we met, about you, and what … what we did.’
‘You’re sure?’ he says.
No. Yes.
‘Wait a minute, please,’ I say.
I ask the same friend to watch Josh carefully for a short time. Then I go into a corner of the room with Steve, still keeping an eye on my grandson. ‘Tell me everything,’ I say quietly.
I listen, at times not knowing where to look, especially when he gets to the point where we were, as he puts it, ‘intimate’. He is flushing too. ‘I want you to know,’ he says, ‘that I don’t do one-night stands. I really loved you, Jo.’
‘Ellie,’ I correct him gently. ‘And I feel something for you here.’ I touch my chest. ‘I just can’t remember you here.’ I touch my head.
He nods. ‘Who knows what any of us are like, deep down? When I read that stuff in the paper about you killing your husband, I felt that something had to have gone badly wrong. You just didn’t seem the type.’
‘I didn’t think I was either,’ I reply slowly.
‘There’s something else,’ he adds.
My heart quickens. It doesn’t sound good.
‘You broke off with me because you said I was boring.’
‘I did?’
I don’t know much about Steve but I sense from what he’s just told me about having thrown up accountancy for street art that he’s anything but boring.
‘I think,’ he says slowly, ‘that you just said that to get rid of me.’
‘Why would I do that?’
‘Shortly after you left, I saw a big piece about you in the paper. There was a picture of you with your husband, Roger. They were looking for you. I guessed you were worried I might hand you in.’
‘Would you have?’
‘Yes, I think I would have had to.’
‘Good.’ I nod. ‘That’s the right answer.’
He looks relieved. ‘You’ve really been through the mill, haven’t you? But I’m so proud of you for coming out the other side.’ He glances shyly at me. ‘And you look great, if I may say so. When I last saw you, you were bald. You have fabulous cheekbones, mind, so you could get away with it.’
I’m not used to such compliments. I don’t know what to do with them. My old mousy straight hair is now a chic elfin style. Amy says it suits me. The hairdresser suggested I dye it a deep chestnut. I’m thinking about it.
‘By the way,’ he adds. ‘I’m no longer on the streets. I’ve found a job with a charity that promotes art in prison.’
Sounds interesting. I’d like to know more but my friend is coming back to me now with my grandson.
‘Ganny, I’m hungry,’ says Josh, tugging at my hand.
‘Sorry,’ I say to Steve, ‘we’ve got to go now.’
‘Wait.’ He places a hand on my sleeve. I think of Peter and panic. I’m not making that mistake twice. Josh has to come first. I can never neglect him as I did Michael.
‘I just wondered if you and your grandson would like to take part in something I’m helping to organize. It’s called The Big Draw and it’s to encourage people of all ages to explore their artistic side.’
I hesitate. Josh is jumping up and down. ‘I love drawing. And Ganny’s quite good at it too.’
Steve smiles. ‘I know she is.’ Then he glances at me. ‘It’s next Tuesday. We’re holding it here in the hall. Hope to see you.’
‘Goody,’ says Josh jumping up and down. ‘Can we go to the beach on the way home, Ganny?’
I can’t help glancing back as we leave. Steve is smiling. A warm feeling glows inside me. I give him a brief smile and then turn round, concentrating on Josh, his warm small trusting hand knotted into my fingers.
We have a great time, running up and down the sand, building castles and jumping in and out – barefoot – of the shallow waves lapping on the shore. But on the way home through our seaside town, those pavement cracks seem to loom up at me even more than they used to before.
‘Why are you walking funny?’ asks Josh.
I stop, recalling that young girl with the sick mother who had clung on to Sheila Greenway’s hand on the way home from school. That’s when it had started to get out of control.
‘Certain people,’ I say slowly, ‘think that something bad will happen if they tread on a pavement crack.’
My grandson looks scared. ‘It won’t mean you have to go away again, will it?’ His eyes begin to fill with tears. ‘I missed you so much. And Mummy cried a lot.’
‘Of course not,’ I say with a lump in my throat.
‘Must I walk funny too because of the cracks?’
I let him catch my fears.
‘No,’ I say firmly. ‘That’s just a silly story. It’s perfectly safe to walk on them.’
He jumps right on one as I speak.
‘Your turn, Ganny!’
Am I ready for this?
‘Go on,’ he urges, his little face bright and shining.
How can I refuse him? I land on the crack fair and square.
I’d like to say that I feel fine. But these things don’t change overnight. They take time. Part of the old me is shaking with fear that something will go wrong now. Yet I also sense Jo at my shoulder, telling me not to be ‘so bleeding daft’.
Between the two of us, I tell myself, I have to emerge into someone else. A new me. An Ellie who is stronger, like my Big Issue friend. Wiser. More forgiving – not just of other people but also of herself. It’s the only way to end the old pattern of guilt and recrimination and unhappiness being repeated down the bloodline, generation after generation. This has to stop at me. Right now. My grandson and his children’s children deserve a new start.
‘I’m tired, Ganny,’ says Josh. So I gather him up into my arms, even though he is getting heavy now. His head rests trustingly on my shoulder.
Together, we make our way home. Our best foot forward.
63
Jo
I bet you don’t want to know any more of my sob story. As you’ve already heard, its the same as all the rest, anyway – dad who hit me; care home to care home; only to find a husband who hit me. Prison. Even though the bastard deserved to die. Lost my kids. Lost my house. Lost everything. Finally freed. More shitty men. More trouble with the police. You know the score.
But there’s one good deed I’ve done. One thing I’m proud of.
One August morning back in 2019 – a real scorcher it was – I came across this lady who’d been helping me out. Ellie, her name was. She gave me some money like she always did but then this other woman turned up. Right tart, she looked. She started bitching about how she and Ellie’s husband were having a thing together. I felt really sorry for Ellie. I’ve been messed around by blokes myself …
Then, a few hours later, I saw her again. I nearly didn’t recognize her. Ellie’s hair was a mess and her eyes were wild. She kept gabbling the same thing over and over again. ‘I’ve killed him.’
‘Who?’ I asked. ‘Who did you kill?’
Then she looked at me with an expression on her face that I’ll never forget. ‘My husband.’
At first I thought she was having me on. Then I recognized the same fear that I’d felt with Barry, my old man. I didn’t need to think twice about it. But we had to be quick or the police could be here. Someone might have spotted her already. So I grabbed her by the arm and dragged her down a side street. I gave her some of my clothes to put over her smart ones and a load of magazines. That way, someone might think she was a Big Issue seller. Some money too for a ticket. ‘Run to the bus station,’ I told her. ‘Then get away as fast as you can. You can catch a connection to Oxford and then somewhere else.’
I could ill afford that cash and those mags. But I reckoned she deserved it after everything she’d done for me in the past. Gave me a nice warm feeling in my heart, it did.
The next day, there were journalists all over the place. A bloke had been murdered in cold blood by his wife. I knew in my gut it was Ellie. She’d always seemed such a nice, gentle person so I reckoned he must have deserved it. I decided it would be best to make myself scarce for a bit. I went to London, but it was too big, so I drifted my way down to Bristol where I still am. I like it here. There are a lot of others like me who’ve found themselves down on their luck. We all help each other.
I kept seeing her picture in the newspaper headlines on and off for a few months. No one knew where she was. I got really worried. Nice women like her aren’t safe on the streets. I know that all too well. I had to learn the hard way how to look after myself. On my first week out of prison for Barry’s murder, someone tried to rape me. I bashed his head against a wall.
Anyway, back to Ellie. Later that year – around Christmas it was – I heard they’d got her. Been calling herself Jo, she had. I was quite chuffed by that. Then I read all this stuff that said she really did think she was me. Maybe she’d gone a bit mental. The streets can do that to you. So can men. I thought about going to her trial to say she was a decent woman. But if I did that, they might do me for being an accessory ’cos I’d given her clothes and magazines and money.
Her case was all over the papers. When they let her go free, I did a little dance right there in the street! But when I went back to my hostel that night – the council had got me a place at last – I started thinking about my life. Ellie was going to have to start again now. She had to prove she had changed. Maybe it was time for me to start again too. So I got some help to give up drugs and drink, like Ellie had kept telling me to do before she went on the run herself. Then my social worker helped me track down my kids. They were grown up by now, of course. Liam wanted to meet me but not Kieran. He can’t forgive me for what I did to his dad even though I tried to explain. Kieran’s got kids of his own now. It’s a crying shame that I can’t see my own grandkids. Maybe when they’re older, they’ll get that I’m not so bad after all.
I often think about Ellie Halls. I can’t help remembering that expression on her face when she told me she’d killed her old man. She was scared. I knew that all right. And panicky. Yet there was something else in her eyes. If I’m not mistaken, it was relief. Whatever that bloke had done to her, he was no longer around to do it and she was glad of it.
I’d never have put Ellie down as a murderer.
But then, who knows what goes on in other people’s minds?
So it’s nice to look back at that moment in time, and
Wonder if I’ve been inspired.
Because it’s me that now chants, and sings songs of
Peace – and thanks for that soup when I was tired.
Excerpt from Poems from a Runaway,
by Ben Westwood
A Note from Jane
Dear Reader,
I grew up near London and have always been troubled by the issue of homelessness in our cities. When I moved down to Devon nearly ten years ago, there initially seemed very little evidence of it in our seaside town. But a few months later I became aware of a middle-aged man sleeping in the doorway of a church. Like many others, I sometimes put a pasty and a coffee by his side although, to my shame, I didn’t stay to talk or ask if he needed help. Then, one cold January morning, when I was walking my dog along the seafront at about 7 a.m., I noticed a pair of legs sticking out from a shelter on the promenade. At the same time, an ambulance silently rolled up. It was the man who’d been sleeping outside the church.
