Orphan Sisters, page 17
Her mind flashed to the two burly bouncers employed by the club. Huge bulldog-type thugs who she suspected would think nothing of physically manhandling a girl. As for the police, Bell was right … she couldn’t risk that for more than one reason.
As she turned and walked away with a straight posture and a roll of her eyes, anyone looking on would know she was better than Bell. Better than the situation she’d found herself in. No one needed to know she didn’t have a penny to her name and within a few days could be out on the streets again. She was Eve Cole and she would find a way out of this current predicament.
She had to.
‘You’ll keep, Bell,’ she said loudly. An empty threat? No. She was just going to choose her battles wisely; Bell would keep for another day.
Instead of looking for work, Eve remained in the room – hers for another three days – with thoughts turned towards Stan, hating him more than ever before and hating herself for still allowing him the power to drive her thoughts. She was nothing like the heroines she’d read about in favourite novels; they overcame adversities and triumphed. She was not even fit to utter their names. She was weak … a kid from a children’s home who no one actually wanted, not even her own mother. She was a nothing.
That night she wondered what death would feel like. Would she be at peace or would the same worries that stalked her carry over into eternity?
Quickly, a memory appeared: that of Daddy, Lana and May happily dancing in the snow. It may have been the first time they’d ever seen snow. But that feeling, as large cotton-wool buds fell from the sky and landed on the tip of her nose, had felt like she was being bathed in magic.
She closed her eyes, and the dark corners of her mind comfortably caressed the possibility of falling asleep and never waking up, just like Daddy.
Chapter Nineteen
Lana sat in a half-furnished flat on a dodgy south London estate deemed dodgy by the locals.
Since moving into the notorious Grogan Estate, she’d regularly clocked the police presence outside the local newsagent’s, and the boarded-up flats on the ground floor. The small gangs of children loitering in every corner clutching bottles of cider failed to intimidate her in the slightest because they simply reminded her of the kids at Sir John Adams Children’s Home. The small cockroaches running along the sink of her kitchen, and the iron bars attached to her front windows and doorway were less welcome. But being inside her first real home since the age of twelve meant she was grateful for the warmth of the radiator, comfortable second-hand armchair, and to be able to get up when she pleased, eat when she wanted to, without the constant noise of a busy dinner hall … allowed to truly be the adult she had always been.
This was supposed to be the most exciting time of her life, yet the pain of May’s disappearance weighed heavily on her soul.
When first told that May had gone, she’d called John Adams Children’s Home daily as well as liaising with the welfare service and the police. Yet there’d been no sightings of her sister. The painful realisation that no one cared about a sixteen-year-old black runaway soon became clear to her.
The ensuing weeks were mostly spent moping around the half-finished flat, still hoping May would turn up, unable to settle her mind on much else, the excitement of her first home drowned out by worry.
The only person with the power to lift her spirits was Clifton. His weekend visits in the past, always fun, now served as a lifeboat to keep her from drowning in her own depths of despair. He prepared his ‘special breakfast’ of cereal, fruit and cream in the morning and baked beans on toast for dinner, and insisted that she eat when she insisted she couldn’t. He would refuse to leave until every last morsel of food had disappeared. Never one to engage in emotional heart to hearts, his bad jokes and attempts at forcing her to smile mostly worked.
And now, after three months of tapping into the strength and presence of her best friend, Lana began to pull away from the negative and dare to imagine a life where hope still lived.
‘I’m going to find Tina,’ she said.
Clifton’s expression dropped. ‘I thought you were going to try and get on with things.’
‘I never said that included giving up on Tina. May’s disappearance knocked me for six but, instead of moping about it, I want to find Tina. At least then, I would have one of my sisters back.’
‘Lana, this is …’
‘Important to me, Clifton. YOU know how important this is to me. So please, please don’t tell me not to do this!’
The social worker wasn’t much help.
‘Lana, like I told you when you rang, there is nothing you can do,’ she said, her eyes on the clock. As if Lana hadn’t noticed her do that twice already. The office was a mess with papers and books strewn across the desk, a small typewriter with a sheet of embossed paper still inside. ‘Tina has been adopted and you no longer have any rights. You’re not her parent, you’re just her sister.’
‘There must be something!’
‘She’s almost eight years old now and with a family. It’s better for everyone if you just get on with your life.’
By the age of eight, Lana had already travelled to a new country and begun a new life in England. She’d loved to dance, was so very inquisitive about her surroundings and enjoyed dressing up in pretty dresses. What was Tina like? Did she even remember her older sisters?
That night, at home, she relayed the encounter to Clifton, hoping to get him to be as outraged as she was.
But he took her hand and stared her square in the eye. ‘The social worker’s right. You don’t have any rights and if they won’t tell you who she was adopted by it’s going to be impossible to find her.’
‘I’ll hire a private investigator.’
‘With what?’ His voice was loud as his eyes remained fixed on her. He held her shoulders, gently. ‘Lana, stop this. You have to stop this. You don’t have any money. You’re about to be nineteen. You have your whole life ahead of you.’
She shook her head slowly as the tears began to fall. ‘I can’t go on, not without my sisters!’
‘Yes, you can. I will be with you every step of the way. I’ll help you fill out the forms for jobs, college, whatever you need to help you get on with your life.’
She wiped a tear from her eyes, angry at Clifton for not being on her side … angry that he was the second person that day to tell her to get on with her life.
‘Nice one for just getting into polytechnic,’ enthused Clifton, as Lana handed him the offer letter.
‘Studying has never come easy to me, but I scrape by,’ she said, unable to match his elation. She could only think of her sisters. This was usual whenever something good happened, because she simply wanted to share her news with them. Let Tina know she had a ‘clever’ big sister; compare notes with May on their academic achievements. But over the course of days and weeks, she had begun to participate more in her life, her future.
‘It will give you something to look forward to and get you closer to a career.’
‘I miss them,’ she said, wanting to rest her head on Clifton’s greasy shirt. He’d been working all day at his stepdad’s garage.
‘I know you do.’
‘And I’m going to see them again, I promise you. Getting some decent qualifications will get me a good job and I’ll be able to afford to find them.’
‘I know. For now though, you’re doing the right thing by concentrating on the future. Getting good marks and being the best you can be.’
‘May always planned on going to university,’ she said, again, ignoring Clifton’s attempts at a pep talk. ‘It’s what Daddy always wanted for us both. He told us often enough!’
‘How do you know she won’t? At this minute, she’s probably got her head stuck in a book preparing to take over the world!’
At that very moment near the centre of London, Eve stood under a makeshift shelter as rain plummeted onto the plastic sheet above her head.
The crowds were thinning due to the weather and a feeling of dread began to set in. Less people meant less money. She didn’t know how long she could do this for, yet had to admit her life looked a hundred per cent better than it had just three months ago.
That night in her room, when the thought of death had taken on a comfortable inevitability, she’d walked into a urine-infested phone box and dialled the number of Sir John Adams Children’s Home. Before she could further consider what she was about to do, she had to know. She needed to be told that final piece of news so that, in some way, it would validate what was currently moving through her mind.
She asked to speak to Mrs Daventry. It was time for a confession and a verbal goodbye to a woman who had been privy to the destruction of a life that, by all accounts of her memory, had started off all right. A warm home. A family. Now she had nothing and was tired of fighting. When the woman – whose voice she thankfully did not recognise – kindly explained she was off until Monday, Eve had almost hung up. Then she heard the next sentence:
‘Would you like to speak with Mr Alford? He’s second in charge.’
She took a sharp breath. ‘Mr Alford?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘Stan Alford?’
‘Yes, that’s correct.’
She replaced the receiver immediately. Stan was alive. A sad day for humankind but a good one for her. She hadn’t killed him. He hadn’t died. His life had not ended. At that moment, as a loud avalanche of tears flooded out of her and she slid down the glass of the urine-infested phone box, Eve, with every heave of her chest, felt the onset of a rebirth. The knowledge she had not taken a life had now presented her with the chance of a new one. She had teetered on a ledge but was suddenly ready to go back inside and at least make an attempt at starting again. She would give it her best shot. No, she would give it her all.
And so the following morning arrived with a fresh outlook on life and a promise to take on the day with a new vigour and zest. The Bells and Stans of this world would never win. Eve Cole was determined to continue on her journey of becoming somebody one day and to finally live the life she deserved.
She’d stumbled upon a street market that very afternoon. A hive of stalls selling jewellery, food and clothes and Cockney stallholders shouting their wares over an aroma of fruity scents. She’d stopped at a stall to admire a T-shirt with a colourful, stringy image of Jimi Hendrix emblazoned on the front. A bit too psychedelic for her but very hypnotic and she couldn’t stop staring at it.
‘Name your price!’ said a rather dishevelled yet fashionable-looking white woman with yellow and purple hair.
‘I’m just looking, thanks.’
‘Story of my life! No one wants to own original art anymore!’
The T-shirts did appear unique.
‘I would if I had the money.’
A young man appeared, grazing his fingertips over one of the T-shirts.
‘Nice, right?’ said Eve.
‘Yeah, it’s alright.’
‘Alright? It’s original art. You won’t find that anywhere else and the lady who designs them … let’s just say, when she’s famous in a few years’ time these will be going for triple the price!’
‘You think so?’
Eve winked at the man, as if they shared a secret.
‘You know what, I’m going to take one for me and one for the wife.’
‘Good choice!’ said Eve, as the owner took over the transaction.
‘That was really nice of you,’ she said. ‘I’m Atlas.’
‘I’m Eve.’
‘Very nice to meet you, Eve. You’ve definitely got the gift of the gab.’
‘Thanks … I think.’
‘I owe you one.’
‘You wouldn’t happen to know where I can find a job?’
‘How about here? Twenty per cent cut on all the shirts you sell?’
‘Really? That could work!’
‘Don’t look so grateful, it’s not as easy as you think.’
Eve had started her new job the following day and managed to earn enough for two bags of shopping. By the weekend, she’d accumulated enough to pay for another three days of bed and board and had renegotiated her percentage to thirty per cent.
Now, three months later, Eve stood under the shelter of a plastic sheet covering the T-shirt stall, knowing the recent rain showers would be a problem. No one bought T-shirts in the rain.
‘Atlas, is there any way I can have an advance on my wages?’
‘Advance on what? You earn what you sell, you know that. Sorry, love.’
Eve hoped Mrs Harris would be more understanding. Since being ‘fired’ from the club, Eve had felt her contempt with each look and each word. Yet, she’d refused to leave and a few enquiries had led her to discover just how expensive other B & Bs were in comparison.
‘Eve, I need the rent up front or else you’re out. You know the rules,’ said Mrs Harris, clutching two bottles of beer as she walked up the stairs that evening.
‘Old dragon!’ hissed a voice as Eve walked into the ‘living’ room – a space filled with ripped seats and a wooden television that only played BBC1 and was only allowed on after 7pm.
‘I’m Melanie, by the way,’ said the girl. ‘Want some gum?’
Eve stared at the girl’s dirty fingernails. ‘No, thanks.’
Melanie’s face, her whole appearance, appeared unkempt, unclean even, and as if she’d been in a fight with a lump of mud.
‘Trouble with the rent, then?’ asked Melanie.
‘Everything’s fine.’ Eve hoped to erase any illusion this girl had of them being the same.
‘Maybe we can go out sometime, hit a club?’ she pressed.
‘No, thank you.’
‘OK then, maybe you’ll like the sound of this. What if we share one of the twin rooms? We can split the bill and that will save us cash. How about it?’
‘I don’t even know you.’
‘What does that matter? It’s about saving cash. We’re probably the same age, both girls. I just hope you don’t snore like Bob in room twenty-six. Do you know I can hear him through my walls? Just another reason for me to move.’
‘No thanks.’
‘OK, just a suggestion. Keep your very big hair on!’
Eve shot her a look.
‘No offence. The Jacksons wear their hair like that and I’m a fan!’
Eve could only hope that Melanie would receive her standoffish nature in the manner in which it was meant. She’d no time for friends, especially people like Melanie. Besides, her main objective had to be making money, keeping a roof over her head and finding enough food to keep her alive. She’d be fine once the weather improved and the money from the stall increased.
For now, the priority was to get away from the overfriendly Melanie.
Eve was certain the library she had spotted last month would be a good hiding spot. She’d been meaning to go for weeks, but the need to make money had overshadowed even her need for books. But as soon as she stepped inside, it felt like home and she stayed longer than planned, having only spent a few minutes looking at the job classifieds and spending the majority of her time leafing through pages of novels.
‘I’d like to take these out please,’ she said grandly, placing three hardbacks and a paperback onto the counter.
‘Can I see your library card please?’
‘I … I don’t have one.’ The excitement of wall-to-wall books had dulled her of any common sense. ‘What do I need, to join the library?’
‘Two utility bills.’
‘I see.’
‘Don’t you live in the area?’
‘I do … but I’m under eighteen.’
‘That’s alright then. Just get your mum to come along with the bills and then I can sign you up.’
‘OK …’
‘Or your dad?’ the librarian added more kindly.
‘I’ll just return these to the shelves,’ Eve said.
She placed the smallest of the books on the windowsill behind the bookshelf, hoping to return to it another day.
Each day after a stint on Atlas’s stall, the library was Eve’s destination. If she wasn’t allowed to take any books out yet, she would stay in the warm and dry, reading for hours, bathed in utter contentment as she allowed the stories to transport her into a decadent world of money and power – all of which would be hers one day. Of course, she still trawled through the classifieds, but the recent improvement in the weather had allowed her to feel a little bit more secure with Atlas and the market stall for the time being.
‘Where do you disappear to every day, then?’ asked Melanie. Eve stared blankly at the television, hoping this kid would leave her in peace. All day, she’d been shouting at passers-by, trying to sell T-shirts and the last thing she wanted to do now was talk to a silly little girl she had nothing in common with.
‘I have a job,’ said Eve.
‘All day?’
Eve wondered why Melanie seemed intent on becoming her friend. This weakness just made Eve despise her even more.
‘Whatever you do, must be good. Or else you wouldn’t have stayed so long, right?’
‘Right,’ she replied dryly.
Melanie soon tired of the effort, leaving Eve to doze off on the sofa. Sounds from the corridor startled Eve awake minutes later.
‘Ohhhh!’
‘Are you alright, Bob?’ she called quietly as the old man from number twenty-six slumped against the staircase. He’d often turn up drunk, yet this time his groans sounded more like pain. She stooped to help him up.
‘Let’s get you upstairs and inside,’ she said almost reluctantly. The thought of being alone with a man in a room repulsed her, yet, with him possibly being in his seventies and in such a drunken state, she was sure to be in the most dominant position. She opened the unlocked door to his room, leaving it wedged open with one of his shoes – just in case – and lay him on the bed. He uttered the first of many ‘Thank You’s’ as she noticed one of the side drawers was wide open, revealing a ten pound note. Bob fell asleep quickly. Her eyes shot back to the money.
She bent down to the drawer to close it but her hand unconsciously drifted inside where she felt the sensation of a number of bank notes. She couldn’t be sure but there was possibly hundreds of pounds there at least. Why was Bob staying in this dump if he had funds? she wondered, before a snort from the man himself startled her. She gazed at the money again, grabbing at a note and then another, until a cool hundred pounds nestled against the palm of her hands. Another snore. Eve turned to the door, then back to the drawer full of money. Exhaling, she placed each note back into its original hiding place. And that night, she walked out of room twenty-six with a strange feeling of frustration and … satisfaction.
