Make Me Clean, page 13
‘She did what?’
‘She had a go at one of the students. No idea what set her off. One minute she was minding her own business in the garden—’ At the mention of the garden, Maria’s panic intensifies. She quickly looks to the policewoman, but there’s no reaction on the girl’s face. Del continues, ‘Then I heard a bit of cursing, she came back inside, and the next thing I knew, she’d thrown a tin of tomatoes at him over the back fence.’
‘Bloody hell. Is he hurt?’
‘Not badly,’ says the policewoman.
Thank God for that. But what was bloody Del doing while all this was going on?
‘Who called the police?’ asks Maria.
Del says, ‘The student—’
‘My colleague is next door talking to him now,’ the police-woman explains.
Maria prays there’s no mention of mushrooms, although that’s an insane thought.
She finds Elsie sitting in the kitchen listening to the radio, like butter wouldn’t melt. As soon as she sees Maria she demands tea and toast. She seems blithely unaware of the chaos she’s caused, or the danger she’s put them in.
Del and the policewoman walk through the house into the garden and Maria’s stomach does a flip. Luckily they stand near the garden fence where the incident happened, rather than poking around the bottom flower bed, but she can’t make out what they’re saying because Elsie continues chattering about toast.
‘Elsie, why did you throw a tin at that lad?’
She’s ignored.
‘You know you could be in trouble if you’ve hurt him. We could all be in trouble—’
‘I WANT MY TOAST!’ screams Elsie.
Give me strength! thinks Maria.
A young policeman knocks at the front door and Maria lets him in. He joins Del and his colleague in the garden.
‘Toast! Toast! Toast!’ chants Elsie.
‘Elsie! For God’s sake, give it a rest!’ she snaps, and immediately feels rotten for upsetting her.
She can bear it no longer and abandons Elsie to join the garden summit.
‘Everything okay?’ she asks.
‘I don’t think he’ll need stitches,’ says the policeman.
She asks Del, ‘What about Elsie? Did that lad do something to make her go off on one?’
He shrugs.
‘By the time we got here, he’d had a change of heart,’ the policeman goes on, indicating next door. ‘He’s not pressing charges. And there’s no point cautioning her in her state, yeah?’ he asks his colleague.
‘No,’ agrees the policewoman. ‘So we’ll probably let this one slide.’ She addresses Del: ‘You just need to keep an eye on her.’
Maria’s shoulders relax a little. She thanks the officers – for what, she’s not entirely sure. She offers them tea, but they say they have to get on.
Maria asks Del to stay five minutes while she pops to the shops because there’s no bread left. By the time she’s returned the police car has departed. Del doesn’t have to say a word. He leaves without saying goodbye, his face like thunder.
‘No Mother’s Pride?’ bleats Elsie, outraged, grabbing items out of a Tesco bag-for-life as Maria switches on the kettle.
‘No, sorry, love. Just hang on. I’ll do us toast as soon as I’ve had a wee. You sit there.’
Obviously, there were dozens of sliced whites at the mini supermarket at the end of the road, but Maria’s been trying to wean Elsie off it and get more fibre into her. She’s bought a large granary loaf, hoping Elsie won’t kick off about the ‘bloody bits’ getting stuck under her denture plate.
She’s only gone for a minute. She doesn’t even wash her hands – she’ll do that in the kitchen – but as she comes through she sees Elsie stabbing a knife inside the toaster trying to release the huge doorstep of bread she’s cut and rammed in the slot.
‘Elsie! No!’ Maria’s voice is sharper than she intended. She snatches the knife from Elsie’s hand and flings it on to the kitchen counter. Sweetie skitters across the floor and lunges through the catflap and Elsie deflates into tears.
‘I’m sorry!’ Maria hugs the old woman and leads her back to her chair, soothing, ‘I didn’t mean to shout, but the toaster could give you an electric shock. It could kill you, Elsie! Are you listening? Please don’t do that ever again.’
Maria cuts the bread thinner, toasts and butters it and, as a treat, spreads it with strawberry jam.
Elsie eats it while quietly grizzling. The sound cuts through Maria.
She has a cup of tea herself as she watches Elsie eat. Then she sets about washing up. As she wipes the knife, the image of Elsie stabbing it into the toaster is overlaid with another vivid scene from just a few weeks ago – a blade stabbing into an eye … The image of Nick floundering around, weeping blood.
Maria leans over the sink and brings up her own tea in one hot heave.
28
Elsie is still agitated when Comfort arrives later that afternoon.
Maria explains about the lunchtime violence, playing it down as best she can, although there’s no easy way to say that the police have been round because Elsie injured a student. She’s worried that this behaviour might cause Comfort to side with Del about shipping Elsie off to a care home.
Elsie seems to have forgotten the tin-lobbing incident. She’s now fixated on her missing letter opener. She gets distressed when she misplaces things.
‘I paid for that with my own money,’ she keeps repeating. ‘I paid for all the stuff in this house. I’ve worked hard for all these … things.’ She jabs her finger around the room. ‘I bought that, and that, and that. And the … that opening thing … letter opener. Where the bloody hell is it?’
You’re best off not remembering, thinks Maria.
She offers the nurse tea.
‘Please. It is cold enough,’ says Comfort, who always settles herself nearest the radiator.
‘But there’s no snow!’ says Elsie. ‘We always had snow before.’
The weather is brutal – metal-grey skies and insidious damp.
‘You had snow before what?’ asks Comfort.
Maria expects her to say global warming, but Elsie ponders, frowns, then exclaims, ‘Before … before Brexit!’
She suddenly sweeps her hand across the table, sending her mug and plate flying. The mug shatters with a crash, although the plate survives. ‘Bastards!’ she rants.
‘Change the subject, please!’ Maria implores Comfort as she gets the dustpan and brush from under the sink.
There’s a hiatus as Comfort tells Elsie she is going to visit her family back in Nigeria in a few weeks’ time and Elsie nods and smiles.
She then asks Maria, ‘How has she been?’
What can Maria say? She sticks to small, safe things – things unlikely to cause another meltdown.
‘She claimed her name was Michelle when we went to the doctors the other day.’
‘She will get more confused and unpredictable as things progress,’ says Comfort.
‘Yes, we know. But the thing was, she told me she’d always wanted to be named Michelle because no one had written a good song about an Elsie. Then, when we got home, she suddenly shouted, “Cabaret!” out of the blue. She’d remembered there’s that line about Elsie in the song, which is more than I did!’
Elsie, now beatifically calm, looks quite pleased with herself.
‘Are you named for Mother Mary?’ Comfort enquires.
‘Probably,’ says Maria. ‘I think my mum …’ The sentence dies in her mouth. Never have I ever had the chance to ask my mum why she called me Maria.
She throws the shards of ceramics into the bin and bustles inside the fridge until she’s calmed herself.
When they say goodbye to Comfort, Elsie settles down to read the Mirror. She can’t seem to focus on a book any longer and she used to love reading. So much of Elsie’s identity is now past tense.
Maria’s own ambitions to see the world also seem past tense. She thinks of what it might be like to travel to Africa like Comfort.
How she would love to run far away from what lies decomposing beneath the rose bushes; from what lies hidden in a Spanish forest; from the consequences of Brian’s boss’s death. How she’d love to escape. But she is tethered here by Elsie and the need to keep her crimes hidden.
And wherever she goes, she can’t escape herself.
29
She wears the new purple T-shirt Brian gave her the next Friday she goes to Balogan’s.
He walks in looking grey. Very early for him. She’s not even started on his bedroom.
‘Maria.’ He acknowledges her before he sinks on to the sofa.
‘Are you okay? Do you need anything?’
‘That … is a question.’ He slowly adjusts his weight and shakes his head. ‘So much I need. For now, though … perhaps a coffee?’
She doesn’t know how to use the complicated machine in the kitchen and is too nervous to ask him what to do. She opens cupboards but can’t find any Nescafé, not that she really expected to, so she takes the ground coffee from the tin, and spoons it into a pan with boiling water, and hurries back to check on him. He’s bent over, his head in his hands.
‘Do you want something to eat?’
‘No, thank you.’ He sits up and smiles the saddest smile she’s ever seen. He seems to be considering another sentence, but his chin falls to his chest a moment, as if he might sleep as he is, sitting on the sofa.
Maria observes him – it is easier to do so when he isn’t looking at her. He has lovely lips.
He takes a breath and rallies, looks up. ‘How are you, Maria?’
She hurriedly looks away. ‘Me? Oh, fine,’ she tries, in case it might be true.
‘English people use that word all the time. It is meaningless. How are you? “Fine” or “I can’t complain”. It is like the word “nice”. Perhaps it should be banned.’ One side of his mouth smiles.
His eyes disturb her. She turns back to the kitchen, busying herself finishing the coffee, as if that might solve something.
She calls through, ‘Milk?’
‘A little, please.’
She sieves the black liquid into a cup through three layers of kitchen towel, adding a splash of milk. It does not look at all inviting. She pours herself a glass of water and carries the drinks through, sitting opposite him, watching as he takes a sip and winces.
‘Is it okay?’
He nods his head very slowly, obviously appalled.
‘It’s crap, isn’t it?’ She sighs.
He looks from the cup to her face and says, ‘It … is … fine …’
They both laugh. She’s surprised to hear the sound come from her mouth.
‘Are you sure you’re okay?’ she tries again.
‘As okay as I can be.’ He takes another tiny sip and pulls a face.
‘I’m rubbish at coffee. Sorry.’
He wrinkles his nose and says, ‘It tastes like … liquid suffering.’
She smiles. ‘I’ll crack on, then.’
She finishes cleaning his bedroom, in case he wants to lie down, but he remains on the sofa, dozing. It is peaceful. When he opens his eyes again she asks if she should hoover, and he tells her to leave it until next time and they say their goodbyes.
‘Thank you,’ he says and smiles right at her.
The image of that smile lingers as she hurries along damp pavements on her way back to Elsie’s. But the further away from Balogan’s flat she gets, her joy curdles, and the familiar shadow of dread settles in her belly.
She has sat and laughed with a man she hardly knows – flirted, almost – despite the bodies she has left in her wake.
That night she dreams of Brian’s boss and wakes on a sickly wave of guilt.
The next afternoon at Elsie’s, after she’s done the washing-up and put a load on because Del forgot Elsie’s overnight Tena Lady pants – again – she sits for her second tea of the day, and out of the blue Elsie says, ‘You met someone, darlin’?’
‘Why?’ asks Maria, thrown. ‘What makes you think that?’
‘You seem different today, that’s all. Brighter. It’s nice to have a friend,’ says Elsie, starting to sing ‘With a Little Help from My Friends’.
Maria wonders if Balogan wants her as a ‘sort-of friend’ – that grey area she inhabits for customers like Bex, who seem to need someone outside of their own social circle to unload upon – or a real friend like Brian.
‘I might have met a friend,’ admits Maria.
‘I’m your friend,’ says Elsie.
‘Yes, you are,’ she replies, giving Elsie a hug. ‘But you’re more than that. You’re my family.’
30
There was a time she might have had a real family.
Joby redoubled his efforts between the sheets. Her guess was that he wanted to get her pregnant before Appleby Horse Fair, and while she wasn’t exactly complaining, sometimes she just wanted to read or go to sleep. She didn’t like to think that she was playing a trick on him, waiting until he went to work to take her pill. She never forgot.
He didn’t talk about it, but Lily wouldn’t stop banging on about a grandchild. It exasperated Maria.
‘What about Anthony?’ she asked. ‘Why doesn’t he make you a grandma?’
‘Oh, our Anthony’s not about to settle down yet,’ laughed Lily. ‘He’s not ready to be a dad. Let him enjoy himself for a bit, I say.’
Anthony was eight years older than Maria.
Joby bought himself a flash new embroidered waistcoat for the horse fair. Gold. She loved it. He looked like a sexy snooker player. He bought her an entire new wardrobe – a huge pink fake-fur coat in case the nights were cold, a pink bodycon dress so tight you could see what she’d had for breakfast, and pink kitten-heel shoes totally unsuited to grass. She loved all of it.
He paid for her to go to a hairdresser in Ashby who piled her hair high, the first time she’d had it up like that. Proper glamorous. She had a headache after an hour.
Chanel and her youngest niece, Caress, both had the same hairdo because they all went to the same place to have it done.
Caress was five. The family had big ambitions for the child to be a performer or beauty queen and Chanel taught her little dance routines. Caress looked bored most of the time. When they dressed her up, the kid had so much fake tan and make-up slathered on her face she looked like a tiny, weary, thirty-two-year-old barmaid.
The first day at the Appleby fair was a riot. Maria didn’t drink as much as the rest of them, but she was high on the occasion.
When they arrived at the site, they set up in the field next to Fair Hill in glorious sunshine, then she walked round a bit to take it all in. Everyone seemed to be in a party mood, and everyone seemed to know everyone else. Police –‘gavver pigs’, as Anthony called them – everywhere. She sat on the riverbank at dusk with Rosa and they watched the lads and lasses bathe after racing their horses and traps up and down the road. She felt a bit horny seeing Joby stripped to the waist, holding on to the big black-and-white mare, and Anthony on the bay, already in the water, like a scene out of a picture book.
When they came up from the river, Joby stood by her and shook himself like a dog, showering her with diamonds of water until she squealed and ran away, and he chased after her whooping. He dried himself off, then they both got into their evening finery, and set off to join the others in the Masons Arms. It was rammed because so many other local pubs had closed for the event to avoid trouble.
Joby was a king then, buying rounds right, left and centre. He glad-handed men, hugged women and patted kids. As the evening progressed, he disappeared with his dad to chat to someone about business, leaving Maria standing outside the pub with Lily, Rosa and Chanel. They were busy talking to a gang of other women she didn’t know, and she suddenly felt very alone. She was almost glad to see Anthony heading their way.
But as the pints went down the flirting amped up. She had to take evasive action, laughing and wiggling away and making sure she went to the loo with one of the other girls, so he didn’t ambush her in the corridor of the pub.
Anthony got louder and more insistent, grabbing for her, even though the others could see. But no sign of bloody Joby. Thankfully, Rosa led her away before she had to push him off yet again.
The next morning it clouded over. Joby left her to it all day long. She watched the horses prance and parade around. As the light faded, the youngsters appeared all dolled up doing the same – girls dressed to the nines and lads doused in Lynx, strutting about, giving each other the eye. Deals seemed to be brokered for horse and human flesh alike – mothers setting up dates and monitoring the level of flirting.
There were a couple of scuffles – daft lads who’d been at the bevvy pretty much all day.
By the time she finally met up with Joby over at the pub it was getting dark, and he was pretty much smashed.
Loud chat and laughter. But while Joby talked to everyone else, he ignored her. Anthony hovered close, gazing at her like the dogs looked at Lily near feeding time, and she had a swift, angry thought that she could flirt with Anthony and make Joby jealous if she wanted.
After what came next, it’s that thought that tormented her.
She saw Joby hug a girl in a low-cut blue dress – she didn’t know her name – petite, pretty; long, flowing dark hair; strong dark eyebrows like they’d been tattooed on. There was a lot of messing about. He hooked his elbow around the girl’s head and shoved it under his armpit. She shrieked, but not in a get off way.
Maria was raging.
Then Anthony was by her side with another drink. He touched her hair as he handed it to her. ‘Yorn proper beautiful, girl,’ he slurred.
‘That is the least interesting thing about me,’ she replied, regal.
She gulped down her drink and asked for another, determined to catch up with Joby.
‘For a kiss, then,’ demanded Anthony.
She laughed and pecked him on the cheek. She knew what she was doing.
Until she didn’t.
