The Day She Died

Twelve

It was empty. No bag, see-through or otherwise. Nothing. Not so much as a sweetie wrapper. I let the lid fall again and rolled around to lean against the porch wall until my breathing settled.

He had taken it away. I smiled at the thought of it, and a warm feeling started low in my stomach. Not one in a million people would know I’d be freaked out at the thought of it being there and take it away. Not even folk with problems of their own. Not even my sister-in-law, who was dead scared of heights. Especially not her, actually.

“But the thing about”-she pointed upwards but couldn’t say the word-“is that you can… ” She pointed downwards and gave me a patient smile. “See? Whereas feathers”-oh, she could say that word okay-“can’t harm you at all. That’s just silly.”

I had swivelled in my chair to stare at my mother. We were all sitting round the table having Sunday lunch together, for the benefit of Allan’s suitable new fiancée.

“Yes, they can,” I said.

Penny blinked and smiled, a flash of her eyes and a flash of her teeth for each one of us round the table, one after the other. My mother managed a bit of a smile back. My brother dropped his eyes. I kept up my hard look.

“In a roundabout way, right enough,” I said. “But they caused me quite a lot of harm once, didn’t they Mum?”

“They can’t have,” Penny said, patiently. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, Jessie likes nothing better than to spoil nice things,” my mother said. “She’ll never learn, no matter what lessons are sent to her. Take no notice, Penny. It’s not worth worrying about.”

“True,” I said. “Not worth a worry. Not like dropping from a great height and going splat and crunching all your bones to rubble.”

I got sent away from the table. Twenty-two I was, and I got sent to my room. I could hear my mother saying sorry and assuring Penny that she wouldn’t have to put up with me again. That poor Allan was too kind for his own good, but I just spoiled everything, been the same since I was a child. “Takes after my late husband,” my mother said. She always called him that. Late. Maybe she even believed it herself by now.

“Jessie?”

I looked down. Dillon was standing in the porch doorway, one foot on top of the other so that only one of his socks would get wet. “Done a poo,” he said. “A big one.”

“Good!” I said. “Let’s see if it’s big enough to win a prize!”

He giggled and held up his hands for me to lift him. I took a deep breath and held it, but it wasn’t so bad. Just kind of warm smelling, really.

“I don’t even know where your changing box is,” I told him, carrying him inside. “Or if there’s a special bucket.” I stopped. Dillon was winding his fist into my hair, tugging it. “In fact, the bins must need emptied something chronic, eh?” I said. “Here’s the deal, Dill. I’ll change your bum and then you help me empty the buckets out to the wheelie, eh?”

“Can I help too?” Ruby was standing in her bedroom doorway with her hairbrush in her hand. “If you do my bobbles?”

“Deal, squeal, spit, and seal,” I said.

“Squeal, squeal, squeal,” said Dillon, wriggling and releasing quite a lot more smell.

“Dill’s got a wet sock, by the way,” Ruby said. “I’ll get some dry ones.”

Turned out there were nappies in bags all over the house. It must have been a pretty powerful deodorant on them, not to mention airtight twist-ties, but still I was ashamed to think that I hadn’t gone round and cleared them before now, that they’d been piling up since Tuesday. In the basket in Ruby’s bedroom, in the tin bin in the living room, in the kitchen flip-top, in the white plastic bucket in the bathroom. Everywhere except Gus’s bedroom, in fact, and since the baby’s cot was in there it took me a while to believe it. I searched down the sides of the furniture and even in the bottom of the wardrobe (which was nuts), then I carted them out one by one and tipped them into the wheelie.

“What day do the men come, Ruby?” I asked. “Do you know? Don’t want to miss them.”

Ruby shook her head and held out her hairbrush and bobbles. “Wash your hands and do my bunches,” she said.

“What’s the magic word?” It popped out automatically like I was a slot machine.

“Now,” said Ruby. Then her small eyes filled up with tears. “You’re supposed to laugh. It’s a joke. It’s funny.”

“Is that your joke with Mummy?” I asked. She nodded. Tears were falling down her cheeks, one after the other, faster and faster, and when I went and put my hand on the back of her head, she pressed her face against me and howled. Which started Dillon off too.

“I’m sorry, hunny-bunny,” I said. I opened my mouth to say more, but what was there to say? She didn’t know me, and even I didn’t know what I was doing here. I didn’t understand how asking about a post-mortem and organising a funeral could take Gus all day, even if he had to buy a suit to wear to it. But his face that morning when I had questioned him? I didn’t want to see that again. I stood holding them against me as they wept, looking down at the whorls of their hair, identical patterns on their little heads.

“We need some chocolate,” I said. Not from being some kind of stupid Bridget Jones bimbo, but from remembering what totally mental, off-the-scale shit sweeties could sort for you when you were five. Me? I was well past the age when chocolate could help, but being the big one with the money who could buy it for the wee ones? That was pretty great too.

The M &Ms were finished and the best the fridge had to offer was Babybel cheese. I checked inside the big pans, the butter bit in the fridge, the backs of the high cupboards-everywhere I’d have stashed it if it was me-and only found cream of tartar and mace, tins of Carnation milk and Devon custard, tangerine segments and packets of lemon jelly. I could make a sell-by-date trifle, I thought, sure that some of this stuff had to have been here since Granddad Dave was on the go. Why would Becky not have cleaned out the cupboards? She grew her own veg but didn’t chuck out the old stuff in the larder?

Dillon’s coat was a solid wodge of padded nylon, and once he was trussed, I had no worries about him. Ruby’s was trimmed with fur and shiny pink and only reached the top of her thighs.

“Have you got a pair of waterproof trousers?” I asked her. “I think it’s going to bucket.”

“Wellies!” said Dillon.

“You betcha,” I said. “You too, Ruby. And hats on, hoods up. No discussion.” That had worked when Gus had said it.

The rain started when we were just about as far from the cottage as we were from the shop, no point turning back, since if we were going to get drenched we might as well get drenched for treats. Dillon was walking at forty-five degrees into the wind with his fringe plastered back over the outside of his anorak hood and his eyes watering. Ruby put her head down like a little bull and barrelled forward. I checked ahead of her for obstacles, but the beach was clear; she’d be okay. I took Dillon’s hand, cold and pink, and tried to tuck my hair inside my hood to stop it whipping across my face.

“Hot baths when we get back,” I said. “Hot chocolate, jammies on, telly on, fire lit, cosy socks.”

The children said nothing, just kept fighting their way into the wind towards the sweeties. I felt an enormous rush of what felt a lot like love for them both. Little kids doing what little kids do. No one telling them they were devils for wanting to do it. That wasn’t what she had said, not exactly. “Something devilish about you, Jessica,” is how she had put it. “From your father.”

“What does that make you then?” I’d said. “You slept with him, not me.”

And then she’d go on and on about how I was a test-my mother was big on tests and lessons; nothing just happened-and that she embraced God’s plan no matter what he sent her.

“Look!” said Dillon. He had pulled back and was pointing at something on the ground. I turned my back on the wind-relief!-and crouched down. I thought it was a rat, drowned, or maybe a mouse. But then I saw the beak and the claws and knew. A starling. Black and sodden. Not scary when it was wet, no chance of anything floating towards me.

“It’s a dead bird,” said Ruby. “Dirty.” She started to kick sand over it and then stopped. “It’s dead,” she said. It wasn’t a question, but I could see her thoughts turning and I knew what was coming next.

“Ditty!” said Dillon.

“Mummy’s dead,” said Ruby. Still not a question. Her cross wee face was tied up tight. “Dead like that?” She kicked the bird, and it shifted a bit into the slush that the rain had built up behind it. I winced. “Not gone to heaven?” said Ruby. She kicked the bird harder. “Dead like that?”

“Poor buddy,” said Dillon. “Dop it, Ruby. No kicking!” It was the most I’d ever heard him say. Wee darling, feeling sorry for a dead bird even if he had to be brave and stand up to his sister.

“Listen,” I said. I grabbed Ruby’s hand and tugged her away from the thing. “Keep walking and I’ll tell you.”

And I did. About how our body is just an earthly shell to hold our soul, and how our soul flies out of our body when we die and lives forever. In heaven.

“What’s a soul but?” said Ruby.

“Soul but,” said Dillon, back to normal.

“Your soul is… ” I said. No point in giving them the holy spirit living inside each one of us routine. I never even met a minister who had a bloody clue what the holy spirit was. “Okay, your soul is… your essence.” Silence. “Or, your spirit, your vital spark.”

“That bird was dead,” said Ruby.

“Your soul,” I said, louder, “is the bit that the Blue Fairy gave to Pinocchio to turn him into a real boy.” Both faces turned up to me, just for a second, until the rain hitting their cheeks turned them down again. “And Sleeping Beauty? Her whole body except for her soul was asleep until the Prince kissed her. And the wicked Queen poisoned every single bit of Snow White except her soul, and that’s how come she was okay. You know Babe?”

“Babe the Pig?” said Ruby.

“He was a pig with a person’s soul,” I said.

“And your body dies,” said Ruby, “but your soul lives forever and it can fly.”

“You’ve got it,” I told her. “Close enough, anyway.” I steered them towards the low dunes at the top of the beach and the path that cut through to the campsite shop, then stopped, tugging on their hoods to hold them. At the corner of the nearest caravan, a figure was huddled under the shelter of the overhang. Must really want a ciggie, I thought, hoping it was true. But I knew who it was even before he came shuffling over to stand in front of us.

“Please, jess?” he said.

“Yeah, hiya,” I said. “Didn’t recognise you… ” dripping wet with another two day’s muck.

“Where she is?” he said. “Jaroslawa. You tell, jess?” He was hunched inside a soaking wet worky’s jacket that was only making things worse, chuting the rain down onto the thighs of his jeans. There’s nothing worse than wet jeans, unless it’s wet trainers and he had them too.

“Okay, I’m sorry to be telling you this,” I said, “especially if you had a fight and maybe you said things you didn’t mean. Cos you are going to be sorry for the rest of your life.” He didn’t understand a word of it. I tried again. “She died. On Tuesday. I’m sorry. She died.”

“But her soul will live forever in heaven,” said Ruby.

My mother would be proud of me.

“Dead?” He crossed himself. I nodded. “Jaroslawa,” he said, like he always did. “Sick?”

“Car crash,” I said. “She… listen, I’m sorry, but she… ” I didn’t want to use the simple words he would understand in case the kids understood them too. “She committed suicide,” I told him, talking quite loud that way you do to help foreigners decipher it.

“No,” he said. He had stopped hunching against the rain, and the way he stood there with the water streaming down his face, over his eyebrows and through his scrubby beard, made me think of the starling. “Not ever. No way. Jaroslawa! Jaroslawa!”

“I know,” I said. “It’s tough to take. But you need to stop hanging around us, right? If Gus sees you, it’ll make it harder for him. So you have to just leave us alone.” The kids were huddled in beside me, sheltering, but a strong gust blew a good soak of rain against us and made Dillon start to grizzle. “Listen, I need to get going,” I said. “You should go back inside. Get in out the rain.”

But he was still standing there when I reached the corner of the track and turned. I looked back twice, and he was still just standing there.

At least the shop was open. The door dinged and we fell in, dripping and shaking like dogs.

“Stay on the cardboard!” It was the same woman as yesterday, Princess Charming herself, in jeans and a fleece now instead of her kaftan, barking at us like a sergeant major. “Get that kid off my clean floor!” The lino was newly mopped and she’d laid flattened boxes on top to walk on, but she hadn’t wiped it off or let it dry, and the cardboard was soggy round the edges. She’d find out later about the ink coming off when she saw inside-out Walkers Crisps and Borders Biscuit Co all over.

“Why the heck would you clean a floor on a day like this?” I said.

“No dafter than going out for a walk,” said the woman. She was poring over a ring-binder full of dockets and a pile of loose papers, but she still had an eye for the kids, watching them like she could hear them ticking and see the fuse fizzing down. “What do you lot want anyway?”

“Treats,” I said. “Sweeties, chocolate, fizzy juice, bubblegum.” She frowned and heaved a sigh up from under the floor. “You are open, right?” I said. The kids were off up the sweetie aisle already, hunkered down, concentrating hard.

“Not really,” she said. “I’m open for deliveries. Half-term next week. There’s a big order coming in, only God knows what’s in it.” She lifted a handful of papers and let them fall.

“You seem a bit flustered,” I said.

“Aye well,” said the woman. “I’ve been let down. Wee madam was just supposed to clean the weekly vans for change-over day. Don’t ask me how she ended up ordering stock and booking in. And now she’s upped and left.”

“When was this?” I said, wondering if she meant Becky.

“Haven’t seen her since Saturday,” the woman said. “My friend in Gatehouse that has a B &B said, ‘Get yourself a Pole, Gizzy. They work like black slaves and there’s never a word of complaint from them.’ So I got myself a Pole and look at me!”

Light dawned, better late than never. “Ros,” I said.

“Aye!” Gizzy barked, loud enough to make Ruby raise her head and look over. “Where’s she skipped off to? Do you know?”

“Home to Poland,” I said. “She left a job?” As well as a friend in need.

“A good job. Flexible hours and accommodation. And my friend in Gatehouse had the cheek to say they were grateful. Grateful! Even when it’s all on the books and contracts to your armpits, they’re not to be trusted.”

“So you’ve got an opening?” I said. “Flexible hours?” Because here’s what I was thinking: I couldn’t stay at Gus’s. Couldn’t just move in. Couldn’t live with myself if I did. But I’d love an excuse to be nearby every day. For him and the kids. Let it happen more naturally, on less of a sick timescale sort of thing. Plus, four days at the Project and the odd night behind the bar at the leisure club wasn’t exactly keeping me in fox furs.

Gizzy looked me up and down. “I’m not interested in a mum,” she said.

“I think that’s illegal,” I told her. “But I’m not their mum. I’m just babysitting today.”

“Our mummy’s dead in heaven,” said Ruby, coming up and putting an armload of crap on the counter. She turned to go back for more. “Her earthy body is dead, but her soul has flied to heaven.”

“Here!” said Gizzy. “Is this the King kids from the end house?” I nodded. “I heard on the news. What experience do you have?” She didn’t even take a breath in between. It couldn’t really have been much clearer: she wanted the dirt dished even if she had to give me a job to get it.

“I run the D &G Free Clothing Project for St. Vincent de Paul Church in Dumfries,” I said. “Cash handling, stock control, cleaning and organizing, all that. Supervising other staff. But it’s only four days a week-I’m off on Thursday, Saturday, and Sunday.”

“I need Friday, Saturday, Sunday,” she said. “But we can work it round. References?”

“Father Whelan and Sister Avril Kennedy do you?”

“Well, I’m not much of a one for Catholics,” said Gizzy. “At least you’re Scottish.” She was giving me a good look up and down, appraising, and so she might have noticed me starting to breathe faster, might have seen me rub my hands on my thighs. I knew I had to ask her.

“The upholstery,” I said. “In the vans. Is it foam? Mostly? Is it microfibre?”

“Don’t tell me you’re allergic?” she said, with her lip curling.

“Not to microfibre,” I said. Deep breath. “Aretherefeathercushionsinthevans?” The only way I could say it was so quickly that chances were, I’d have to say it again.

“Oh! La-di-dah!” she said. “Twenty featherbeds, eh? Goose-down pillows in satin cases! Eiderdowns to spare! No there bloody aren’t, and if you paid the cleaning bills, you’d know why.”

“Good!” I said. Too loud, trying to shut her up before she thought of any more names for them.

“You can start tomorrow on a two-week trial,” she said. “Eight sharp and bring your references.” Dillon came up and tried to heave his own armload up beside Ruby’s. I bent to help him. “There’s no discount, mind.”

“I can’t start tomorrow,” I said. “Not till after four anyway. But I’ll work on till it’s done.” I stood up and held out my hand. “Jessie Constable.”

“Gisele MacInstry,” she said. “Gizzy.”

“That’s us set then,” I said. “Can you put me in the tick-book for this lot and take it off my first week’s wage? I’m kidding,” I added before she could blow a blood vessel. Slowly, she went back to her usual colour: the deep purplish brown of someone who runs a good seasonal business and spends the winter somewhere warm with cheap drink.

“Aye, well,” she said, “I suppose. Butter wouldn’t melt in that Ros’s mouth and she’s turned out useless.” She cracked open a plastic bag with a flick of her wrist and started ringing up the junk on the register. “Yes to everything. ‘Jess, Gizzy’ this and ‘jess, Gizzy’ that and then upped and walked. What’s wrong with you?” Because I was standing staring at her.

“Polish accent,” I said.

“Oh, don’t go all offended on me,” said Gizzy, rolling her eyes. “She was bad enough. I called her Rosalind once and got an earful. As if I could pronounce what Ros was short for! I meant no harm.”

“Jaroslawa,” I said. Gizzy blinked at me. “He’s Ros’s friend,” I said. Ruby squinted up at me. “Ros’s friend,” I said again. “He’s nothing to do with Becky. He’s looking for Ros. Which… ” I looked into their three faces and then settled on Ruby. “Which… makes tons more sense. Why would you be worried enough to come looking for someone after an hour or two? But Ros left on-”

“Saturday,” said Gizzy. “And this friend needn’t come looking round here for her. I’m sick to the back teeth with the lot of them.”

“I wish I could remember his name,” I said to Ruby and Dillon as we sailed back down the path with the wind at our backs. I could feel the rain soaking through the neck of my coat, but it was a holiday compared with the outward journey.

“Wanna sweetie,” said Dillon.

“Mister!” I shouted. “Kaaaaz? Mr. Wet Man! Mr. Kaaaaaz!” I would have probably shouted Mr. Polish Guy if it hadn’t been for Gizzy. “Help me shout, kids.” I swung their arms with a one and a two and a one-two-three.

“Mr. Kaaaaaz!” Ruby and me shouted.

“Wanna sweetieeeee!” Dillon shouted louder than both of us.

“Dillsky,” I said. “It’s pouring with rain if you haven’t noticed. You need to wait till we get home.”

“There he is,” said Ruby. She pointed to the row of cabins and bungalows at the edge of the sand and then pelted off, pumping her arms so hard that her whole body twisted with each step. I could just hear her shouts-“Mr. Wet Guy!”-being torn out of her mouth and hooked away by the wind. I took a tighter hold of Dillon and followed her.

She ran right up to the middle house, the big one, and under the awning thing, halfway between a real garage and a carport.

“Mr. Kaz!” she shouted, and it was suddenly deafening under the roof. I hissed at her to come out.

“There’s nobody here, Ruby-doo,” I said. “Come on. This is someone’s house, you know.” And they were in too; the tumble drier was going.

“I saw him,” said Ruby. She was standing like Zorro in the middle of the floor, just on the oil stain where the car would be if it was parked there. “He was peeking at us. He was here.”

“Aye well, he’s not here now,” I said. “And Dillon’s shivering. Come on.”

“Mr. Wet Guy,” said Ruby in a come out, come out wherever you are voice, high and wheedling. At the back of the garage, where the canoes were bundled, someone laughed and smothered it.

“Kaz?” I said.

“Kazek,” he said. “Jess.” He stood up from where he’d been hiding behind the canoes and sidled out. He was wrapped in a sheet of bright blue crackling plastic, like for covering a boat or something.

“Right,” I said. “Kazek. Yeah. Good. Okay. Jaroslawa is not dead.”

“Alive?” he said.

“Yes,” I said.

“Where is Ros?” said Ruby.

“Where she gone?” said Dillon.

“Why you said is dead?” said Kazek. He came shuffling out from among the canoes. His trainers were so wet I could hear them squelching.

“Misunderstanding,” I told him. “Is this your house?”

“Is here?” he said. “Is back?”

“She’s away home to Poland,” I told him. “Why are you wrapped up in that tarpaulin?” What were the chances he’d understand that? He was shaking his head, moving forward all the time, right up close to me.

“No,” he said. “No way. Not go home.”

“Sorry,” I said. I was staring at the space between the edge of the tarp and his neck, the way it stood out from being so stiff. I could see quite a bit of his collarbone, almost out to his shoulder, and I didn’t think he was wearing anything under there. I stepped back.

“You good woman,” he said.

I took another step backwards. “Roobs,” I said. “Goan, go back out to the beach, eh? Go on.” She scuttled outside. He must have been pinging her radar too-no way she’d go just because I told her.

“You make me happy, jess?” Kazek said. “Jaroslawa is no dead. You make no cry, jess?”

“No way!” I said, and Dillon flinched against my neck at the sudden loudness. I hadn’t even realised he was drowsing. “You’re seriously weird, pal.” I hutched Dillon over so I could hold him with just one hand and I stretched the other out, pointed my finger. Jabbed it really. “Just stay out of my way.” Then I turned tail and ran. All the way along the beach, over the rocks and up to the cottage, locked the door, checked the back door was locked too, and still couldn’t help looking out the window for any sign of a blue plastic cloak coming our way.