Make Me Clean, page 11
But later that night, upstairs in the honeymoon suite, Joby made her forget all that. Again and again and again.
He drove them up to the Lake District for their honeymoon, which was a big disappointment as she’d wanted to go somewhere abroad, and it was pelting down, the rain battering like hail on the caravan roof. But then they were in bed all day, which made up for the weather. Later, she wondered if that had brought it on.
Three days after they got back, the pains started, worse this time. Joby rushed her to hospital, but it was too late.
When her dad visited he didn’t know what to say or where to look, but when he left to get them a coffee, Frankie said it was a shame it hadn’t happened before the wedding. Maria was so shocked she felt dizzy.
She was still dazed when they got back to the trailer. She kept saying sorry to Joby and he kept saying she had nothing to say sorry for.
But she’d carried on with her netball, she’d had a couple of drinks with her mates on her hen do, and she’d regretted getting pregnant – thought it was way too soon to be a mother. Did she wish it away?
Joby tried to console her, but his cuddles always ended in sex and she tensed up when he was inside her.
‘What is it?’ he asked. ‘Does it hurt?’
‘No, it’s not that.’ She wasn’t sure she could explain.
‘We’ll have to start another babby,’ he said, without missing a beat.
The thought horrified her. She couldn’t go through that again.
‘Can’t we wait a bit?’ she asked. ‘I’m not sure …’
He looked like she’d punched him.
Which is why she didn’t tell him when she went on the pill, hiding the packets between the pages of her books.
And then she realised, she might have wanted to be a bride, but she wasn’t so keen on being a wife. So much sex those first few months – that fuck jar would soon be full – but so much cooking and cleaning.
Joby seemed to catch a whiff of her discontent. Sometimes she’d find him looking at her with a dark expression clouding his face. Perhaps it was suspicion, or perhaps it was just the way the light fell.
She didn’t like lying to him, but she knew she didn’t want to be a mother until she’d seen a bit more of life.
In the end, she saw too much.
23
Del has asked Maria to go straight back to Elsie’s rather than to her bedsit after the Balogan cleans from now on, because he can’t be spared at work. Essential work, flogging overpriced insurance and bank loans with crap interest rates, but someone’s got to do it.
Maria doesn’t even get a chance to lie down for half an hour that Saturday morning, because, after Elsie’s breakfast, someone bangs on the front door so loudly it makes Elsie flinch.
‘Jesus H. Christ!’ she cries.
‘I’ll get it,’ says Maria, irritated.
She opens the door to a stocky woman who shouts in her face, ‘Where is he? He’s back here, ain’t he?’ And before Maria can say a word, she barges her way into the house.
Maria shuts the door and rushes after her.
The woman is already in the kitchen, demanding of Elsie, ‘Where is he? I know he’s here! Nick! NICK!’
‘No he bloody ain’t here!’ Elsie bellows. ‘You think I’d have that bloody waste of space back? Get out! Go on, bugger off!’
‘What’s going on?’ asks Maria.
‘It’s her from the betting shop,’ Elsie clarifies.
‘Her’s got a name!’ snaps the woman, although she doesn’t give it.
Nick was ten years younger than Elsie – her ‘toy boy’, as she sarcastically referred to him – although he was sixty-six. His ‘girlfriend’ looks to be pushing fifty, but she might just have had a hard life. She sports a denim jacket at least a size too small, displaying an admittedly impressive if crinkly cleavage, crispy dyed black hair, and a heavily lined smoker’s mouth. She wears huge, hooped earrings, like the gypsy girls.
Betting Shop Woman stands over Elsie, yawping. ‘Oh, you think you’re it, dontcha? Well, you can tell him from me—’
‘He’s not here!’ roars Elsie.
Maria knows women like the betting shop floozie, as Elsie’s refers to her, and she knows they’re trouble. She won’t go quietly, that’s for sure. But she will not let her upset Elsie. She moves to stand between the mouthy visitor and Elsie’s chair, just in case she lashes out, and says, ‘We’ve not seen Nick. Neither of us.’
The woman whirls round to face her. ‘And who the fuck might you be?’
‘He’s not been here,’ repeats Maria, ignoring the question. She needs to get this woman out of here as soon as she can. She prays Elsie doesn’t blurt out Nick’s resting place in a moment of anger.
‘Is he upstairs?’ asks the interloper, making a move as if to go and hunt for him.
‘Don’t even think about it!’ warns Maria, really annoyed now. ‘He’s not here!’
‘And I say he is. You calling me a liar?’ she challenges.
‘You’d better go,’ says Maria, moving closer to her.
‘Really? You gonna make me, are you?’ The chest inflates with indignation.
Maria tenses. This has escalated pretty fast.
‘You—’
Maria sees the slap coming a mile off. She ducks the blow, pushes her attacker against the kitchen wall and at the same time brings her knee up, connecting with the woman’s pubic bone. Her opponent gasps and bends double.
‘You give her what for!’ whoops Elsie, clapping her hands in delight.
‘Get out,’ says Maria.
‘Fuck-a-duck,’ groans the woman. She pants, trying to get her breath.
Jesus. What if she goes to police and reports Maria for assault? Although an ABH charge would be the least of it.
‘You tell him … tell him we’re done.’ She points at Elsie. ‘I’ve had enough of his disappearing acts, the shady bastard. You’re welcome to him.’
She limps away, spitting a final, ‘He’s not worth it!’ behind her, and Maria slams the door after her.
Back in the kitchen Elsie’s delighted. ‘Oh, that was better than watching a bust-up in Albert Square, that!’ she enthuses. ‘Spitting feathers, she was, but you saw her off good and proper!’
Maria sits down heavily, shaking with adrenalin. ‘Do you think we’ve seen the last of her? Will she be back?’ she asks.
‘Nah.’ Elsie shakes her head. ‘Nick was never that good a catch. Do you want a cuppa, darlin’?’
Maria’s taken aback by how easily Elsie dismisses the altercation. She seems blissfully unbothered that the girlfriend could cause more trouble. And trouble hardly covers the fact that Maria might face life imprisonment if the police take an interest in the garden.
‘I’ll make the tea,’ says Maria, sighing heavily. She gets the mugs. ‘Are you okay, Elsie? She didn’t touch you?’
‘No. Fine and dandy, me. Bit of entertainment.’
Maria is far from entertained. Just because Elsie doesn’t rate Nick as love’s young dream doesn’t mean the girlfriend won’t worry about him and go to the police.
She asks, ‘Elsie, what about Nick’s mates? Are they likely to turn up or report him missing?’
‘Since he retired he only knocks about with bloody winos,’ snorts Elsie. ‘If he’s not buying a round, no one will give a toss.’
Maria’s not convinced. The visit has rattled her.
She’s shocked by her kneejerk response to the threat – as if that night of horror with Nick has unleashed some long-buried killer instinct.
She’s worried – she’s probably a poisoner as well.
And she’s furious – Del’s used all the semi-skimmed and not replaced it.
‘We need milk, Elsie. I’ll go and get some.’
Outside, she checks to see if there’s any sign of her adversary, but the woman seems to have disappeared.
But who else might come looking for the husband rotting under the roses?
24
Del has the day off the next Tuesday and he grumpily agrees to take Elsie to a tea dance at the community centre down by the Angel.
Maria sets off early to Brian’s. He’s texted saying, Working from home. Have eclairs! She can’t wait to find out what’s happened with the boss.
She hurries past the Crouch End Waitrose, staring hard at the pavement, so as not to eyeball the Big Issue seller. She hasn’t got anything to give her – she never has any spare change and smiling at the woman won’t put food on her table.
As usual, she feels anxious about leaving Elsie alone with Del while she’s working. What might she say? But what else can Maria do? She can’t babysit her every minute of every day. She needs to keep the money coming in.
Maria has only ever been without her own cash twice in her life – when she was a kid, before she started earning her own pocket money, and when she was with Joby – and she’ll never make that mistake again.
She’s nervous when she lets herself into Brian’s flat, braced in case something truly terrible has happened. Much as she wished horrible things on the boss, what if the mushrooms can be traced back to her? Surely she would have heard by now if something awful had happened. No news is good news, right?
No one would realise she’d given anything with added ingredients to the man. She’d served canapés to everyone that night, nothing suspicious there. No one saw her take the special plate from the top of the fridge, no one was in the kitchen when she put it back in her rucksack. She didn’t have a row with the boss, only spoke to him the once, so none of the guests are likely to connect her to him, would they?
The students next to Elsie could hardly say anything either. And there’s no trace left of what she used.
But …
Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you.
Brian seems chipper and unconcerned as he makes them tea. She asks if everyone enjoyed the party – by which she means the boss but she can hardly specify. Brian says everyone loved it, apart from a few gruesome hangovers the morning after, and he goes on to tell her he’s planning on doing even more hours in the office while the boss is away on holiday.
So – he’s away on holiday!
The relief hits her. She takes a big mouthful of the tea – something hot and perfumed – and to her surprise realises she’s also more than a little disappointed.
Her face must change because Brian looks concerned and asks how she’s doing.
‘Fine,’ she tells him, although she’s also telling herself.
‘You look a bit knackered.’
‘Thanks a bunch. I’m always knackered.’
Brian’s one of the few clients who seem to be genuinely concerned. Most take her at her word as she brushes off any enquiries. But he pushes on.
‘Are you sleeping? Is it Elsie? How is she?’
She hesitates. It would be so nice to confide in him. Tell him what she did, ask him to find out exactly what happened to his boss to put her mind at rest.
Instead, she tells him that Elsie is doing ‘as well as can be expected’ and sets about the cleaning.
When she’s finished she feels almost giddy.
She shows Brian the ridiculous rubber gloves Balogan bought her, and they both laugh.
‘Where did you get them?’ he asks.
‘A client.’
‘A client who’s buying you presents? I thought I was your sugar daddy,’ he jokes.
‘It’s not like that,’ she protests.
‘It’s always like that!’ says Brian.
There follows ten minutes of Brian waxing lyrical about the many charms of his new man. Alex has so many sterling attributes, he may even walk on water.
*
When she gets back to Roseberry Gardens she can tell Del is annoyed before he opens his mouth. He fiddles with his cigarettes and glares as Maria swings her backpack on to a chair. Elsie beams up at her as Del purses the thin lines which pass for his lips.
‘Well? How was the tea dance?’ she asks.
‘It was a bloody embarrassment, if you must know,’ he pouts.
Boris tries to climb on Del’s lap, but he pushes him down. Not a huge fan of the fur family, is Del. The cat hurtles out of the catflap pursued by invisible demons.
‘Why? What happened?’
‘She wouldn’t leave the singer alone. Kept trying to sing along with him and grab him and stuff.’
‘She likes singing.’
‘There was this bloke there with his shirt off,’ pipes up Elsie, word-painting with her fingers wiggling. ‘Like Iggy Pop – that pickled … pizzle. Like one of the … them bleedin’ bog people.’ She laughs.
Del ignores her. ‘And she wouldn’t leave this other bloke alone – some dodgy geezer dressed like Elvis.’
‘Fat Elvis,’ clarifies Elsie.
‘As long as she enjoyed it.’
‘Wouldn’t stop laughing,’ says Del, as if this was a bad thing. ‘Laughed at Elvis. Laughed at the singer.’ His tone changes. ‘Kept laughing and saying Nick would never dance again.’
Maria thinks, For fuck’s sake, Elsie!
Elsie hoots and announces, ‘He’s only narked cos we didn’t win the raffle.’
Del turns to face Maria, arms crossed. ‘What did she mean?’
‘What do you mean, “What did she mean?”’ she tries. She’s about to make herself a tea when she startles, noticing Boris at the bottom of the garden pawing near the rose bushes. For a second, she wonders if he’s trying to dig up the old man, as if Nick has been summoned by the mention of his name, but then she realises the cat is just taking a shit on him.
‘Why won’t Nick dance again?’ presses Del.
‘I have no idea.’ She forces herself to keep eye contact.
Del waits. It is hard not to fill a silence.
‘Perhaps he might have hurt his foot?’ supplies Maria, turning away and cringing as she says it. Pathetic!
‘Really? When was this? Because the thing is, he’s not got back to me about the lock-up. He said he’d give me a ring as soon as his mate got the keys. He knows I need to get the off-road parking sorted before my permit runs out. She’s no bloody use.’ He nods towards Elsie. ‘I’ve asked around and no one seems to have seen him for weeks.’
Maria shrugs.
‘He can’t hurt no one no more,’ chirrups Elsie, clapping her hands in glee. ‘No-no no-no no-no!’
‘Fuck’s sake,’ says Del, irritated with everything that comes out of Elsie’s mouth.
Maria bustles around the kettle, willing Elsie to keep schtum. If she carries on like this she might as well put an advert in the bloody Metro.
‘There’s a brew on already,’ says Elsie, making the shape of steam with her fingers.
Good. Keep her rattling on about tea, her favourite topic.
‘Do we need fresh? It’s not stewed, is it? What biscuits do you fancy?’ asks Maria.
‘Where do you reckon he might have gone, then?’ presses Del. ‘Seeing as he’s hurt his foot, like?’
Sarcastic. What’s he angling at?
‘I know! I know!’ squeals Elsie, her hand shooting up like she’s back at school.
‘The Chocolate Digestives?’ tries Maria, rummaging in the cupboard, eager to distract her.
‘He’s—’
She grabs the Digestives and Ginger Nuts. Behind the abandoned Rich Tea, which Elsie saves for people she doesn’t like, Maria finds the good stuff. ‘Jaffa Cakes!’ she announces. They might save the day.
Del stares at Elsie, who is bouncing up and down in her seat.
‘He’s gone. For good!’ she crows. ‘Ding-dong the witch is dead, the wicked witch is—’
‘Jaffa Cakes, Elsie!’
Ignoring Maria, who is shoving three packets of various biscuits in Elsie’s direction, Del takes hold of his aunt’s hand, which causes her to turn and face him.
‘Where’s he gone?’
‘He’s … he’s off …’
‘Elsie, come on, let’s choose …’ Maria sounds like a demented kids’ TV presenter, but if Del notices she’s laying it on a bit thick with the biscuits, he doesn’t say anything.
‘He’s off to see the wizard, the wonderful …’
Del crouches down so his eyes are the same level as hers and makes his voice kind. ‘Auntie Elsie, where is he? Where’s our Nick?’
Maria sees Elsie’s eyes flick to the window and back. Her brow creases.
‘He’s … he’s under—’
‘Elsie!’ Maria’s voice is screechy.
‘Under … the moon of love!’
Del won’t give it up. ‘Stop arsing about,’ he snaps. ‘Where is he?’
‘He’s under … that woman from the bookies!’ proclaims Elsie.
‘Her?!’ Del tuts. ‘Again? Has he got bloody shares in Viagra?’
Maria exhales. Is Elsie remembering the recent visit from Betting Shop Woman, or is she deliberately crafting a cover story? Maria puts biscuits on a plate for something to do. When she and Elsie are alone, they eat them straight from the packet. If Del buys the yarn about the woman from the bookies, luck might be on their side.
‘She was round here the other day after some of his stuff,’ says Elsie.
‘Yes, she was,’ Maria confirms. It’s the only true thing either of them have said about Nick since his death.
The interrogation fizzles out. Thank God.
When Del finally leaves, they watch TV and then Maria starts getting Elsie ready for the night. She’s in high spirits and there are several rousing choruses of ‘Over the Rainbow’ before Maria can get her to clean her teeth.
When she’s settled in bed with the special puzzle book recommended by Comfort – ‘to keep what’s left of my brain ticking over’, as Elsie puts it – Maria goes back to the kitchen and pours herself another brew. She must be fifty per cent tea by now.
She gives the cats a fuss before shutting the kitchen door on them overnight – so they can stay indoors if they want, or get out of the catflap, but not pester Elsie. She strokes the little bald patch on top of Sweetie’s head, fuzzy as a peach, worn thin with love like the Velveteen Rabbit.
