The Lost Child

VIII. ALONE

I had a feeling it was coming, but I’m still shocked by the way they’re carrying on. After all, I paid my rent on time for the first two months, and we seemed to be getting on fine, but now that I’ve lost my job up the road, and just need a bit of patience, they’ve suddenly changed their tune. The American one is the problem, but if I’m honest, I never much cared for him. He knocks on my door and starts to jabber away like he’s my friend, but I’m not dense, for I know that he ran away from fighting in Vietnam and he probably reckoned that nobody would find him in London. I’ve got his number. While the other one goes off to work, this one stays at home and plays the part of the wife, cleaning the house and singing along to the wireless and drinking vodka, because he thinks nobody can smell it on him. Really, Monica, we don’t want any unpleasantness. But I tell him, look, I can’t give you what I don’t have, can I? Those buggers at the community centre they liked me when the Jobcentre people sent me for the interview, and they gave me the position without a second thought and said that having been to university, I had a different kind of background, which would be good for everyone. However, as soon as I began to do the actual job, running the youth workshops and taking charge of the nursery and organizing the domino evenings, they began to turn on me and tease me, particularly the younger ones, who started telling me that my face didn’t fit and calling me all the names under the sun. I asked them straight out, If this is supposed to be a centre for everyone, why doesn’t my face fit? Of course, nobody wanted to say anything about that. The American man looks at me and listens to me going on, and he shrugs his shoulders and tells me that it will be best if I can produce the rent money before his friend comes back from his solicitor’s job at six o’clock.

Last Friday, after all the kiddies had left the nursery and I’d locked and bolted the door, the people at the community centre told me they were letting me go, and since then I haven’t had anything to do in the daytime. This being the case, for the whole week I’ve just stayed in the tiny attic room that I rent in these people’s house, and I’ve tried to keep myself to myself. At the dead of night when they’re both sleeping, I come out and creep around the place and get myself a cup of tea or some toast, but even though I’ve been making a real effort not to make any noise, I suppose they could tell that something was the matter and that I didn’t have a job to go to anymore. It must have been obvious to them.

When six o’clock arrives, I hear him coming up the stairs, and then he begins hammering on the door. He’s a rude so-and-so, and he doesn’t even wait for me to open it up before he starts his lambasting. I tell him that I don’t have the rent money, and that I’ve already said this to his American friend, and this is his cue to get nasty, and he points his finger and says no wonder they got rid of me. According to him, I’m not right. We’ve tried, Monica. I mean, come on, you’re thirty-six now, aren’t you? What’s my age got to do with it, and what does he mean they’ve tried? It was me who saw the postcard in the newsagent’s window saying they had a top-floor room for rent, and it was me who went to a phone box and called their number and then came around and saw the room and paid a month’s rent up front. It’s not like they made any effort. I came to them. Listen, we both think you need a more structured environment. We’re not equipped. He looks behind me, and he can see that I’ve already packed up a few things in my holdall. I’m not daft, I could see what was coming, so I’ve got myself ready. I’m sorry, Monica, but we need the rent. I want to tell him that he should send his American friend out to get a job instead of letting him waste the whole day just swanning about the house to no particular purpose. However, I don’t say anything. It’s June, and in four months’ time I’ll be going back to university, so until then I’ll just have to get another job and find somewhere else to live. These two smarty-pants think they know everything, and they act like they’re the only ones in the world with a room to let, but they’re not.

The first time I lived in London I frittered away most of my time watching the city like I was looking at a programme on the television set. I could see the people, but they couldn’t see me, and I can’t say it was a happy time. This time I’ve tried to take part, but look where it’s landed me. I pick up my bag and start down the two flights of stairs, and when I get to the door, the American one flits into the hallway like a little mouse and pushes a pound note into my hand and whispers, “Good luck,” before running off back to the kitchen. I walk slowly up the road in the direction of the community centre, but I know I’m not welcome there, so I cross over and go into the Sutherland Arms and order a half of lager and lime and take the drink outside and sit and watch the kids playing in the mews. Then it occurs to me that I know the man who’s sitting at the next table with a pint of Guinness, for he sometimes comes into the centre and talks to people in the bar. He’s an actor who, when he’s not working, drives a minicab. He smiles and asks me what’s on my mind, so I tell him my troubles, and he listens. Then, without asking, he picks up my glass and his own, and he goes into the pub and brings us both another drink. This time he sits down at my table. I have a room, he says. The previous tenant moved out last week, and you can take it till you set yourself up. He asks me if I know Shepherd’s Bush, and I say I know where it is, and apparently this is good enough for him.

The man is not like most people, for he has a matter-of-fact casualness about him, and it looks like nothing could ever cause him to fret. When he laughs, I can see all of his teeth, and I feel as though there’s no bullying gene in him. So I tell him about the time I spent in hospital last summer, and how after the detective came and spoke to me I counted out the pills and took them, and how they decided to take away my eldest and give him to another family until my nerves were better. When my son came to the hospital to visit me, I didn’t know what to say to him, and the poor thing was too shocked to know what to say to me, and so he had no idea what to do with himself. I tell the man this bit of the story, but then I make up my mind to say nothing else, and I just sit with him outside of the pub and we both enjoy the evening sun going down, but I can see him sneaking the odd look and smiling like he’s pleased with me.

He tells me that it’s only three stops on the tube and then it will be my station. When I get out, I should turn right onto the main road. You’ll know it, he says. The station has only the one exit, and it gives out onto a busy, busy road. I’m to walk for ten minutes, then make a left turn at the third traffic light. The house is about a hundred yards down the side street, and he takes a key off a big ring that is attached to his belt, and he writes down a telephone number on the back of a betting slip and passes both the key and the slip to me. Call if you need anything, but it may be a few days before I can get over there to see how you’re doing. But please, you must make yourself at home.

I sit on the tube and it strikes me that if I hadn’t run into this man, I’d probably be on my way to Hyde Park in search of a park bench that I could use as a bed for the night. Instead of this I have a key in one coat pocket, and a pound note in the other one, and I have a place to stay until I get myself up on my feet again. It’s nearly dark by the time I find myself standing outside the three-storey house, which has a huge tree in the front garden, so it’s difficult to see the windows. Even before I put the key in the door, I know that it will be gloomy inside, for how can any light get in? The bare floorboards of the entrance hall are littered with pools coupons and unclaimed letters that nobody has shaped to pick up. It looks like they’ve been kicked to one side, although there’s a small shelf that runs the full length of the wall, and presumably it was put there so people could set things on it. In front of me is a staircase that I imagine leads up to the other flats, but I use the same key and open the door to the right, which leads into what the man called the garden flat.

The bathroom is straight in front of me; I can see a small bathtub and a sink and a toilet all crammed together, but no windows. There’s a cord hanging from the ceiling, but I don’t give it a pull because I’m not ready for any sudden brightness. An open door leads to a small living room with a kitchenette in one corner, a settee that is too big for the cramped space, and a battered wooden chair. I decide that the closed door to the left must be the bedroom. I put down my bag in the tiny hallway and listen, but I can’t hear anything. No voices, no traffic, no noise of any kind, and so I go into the bedroom as I’m tired. However, it’s disgusting and smells like dirty feet, and I know that I won’t be able to sleep in such a room, so I close in the door and pick up the bag and carry it into the living room. I take off my coat and put it over the settee and tell myself that I’ll lie down for a minute, but the next thing I know it’s the morning and I can see light outside.

It occurs to me that I should probably leave this place and find somewhere more suitable, but my whole body feels tired and I can’t even lift up my arm. The last time I felt so jiggered was when the woman came and said I’d be leaving the hospital and I told her that I wasn’t ready. I know, love, she said, but we’re sending you off to Bridlington for a few weeks of convalescing. Nice gardens and fresh air and walks by the sea, it will do you the world of good. I closed my eyes. The woman had already asked me if there was anybody I could spend time with, and I told her that last year my father had written me a letter in which he informed me that my mother’s cancer had come back and she’d died. What cancer? She hadn’t told me anything. She went quickly, was all he said, as if that justified his not getting in touch, so no, there wasn’t anybody I could spend time with. When I opened my eyes, the woman was still talking and reassuring me that I’d probably be able to get my job back at the library, and that I shouldn’t worry, for Ben was being looked after by a lovely family, but it might be a bit of time before I’d have everything back to normal. I looked up at her, and I remember thinking, you bloody well better get my eldest back to me. As the light outside begins to fade, I turn over on the settee and realize that I’ve gone through the whole day in one place. Tomorrow is Sunday, and this is the worst day of the week, for nothing is open. Even here in London most shops are closed, but I can still go and look at the cards in the windows of the newsagents along the main road to see if anybody has any rooms to rent, and then have a quick glance at the “situations vacant” in the window at the Jobcentre. I have to get another job. That’s the way it has to be: first a job, and then I can see about paying for another room.

I’ve not been well, so Sunday also went by without me doing much, but it’s Monday now, and I’m feeling a bit better. I’ve even done a bit of exploring. I discovered that the top-floor flat is empty and two planks of wood have been nailed across the door as though somebody is trying to keep people out, or trying to keep people locked up inside. An old lady lives in the first-floor flat, and she seems to like to keep herself to herself. I met her this morning when I heard the front door open, and I rushed out thinking that my actor friend had finally come to see me, but it was the old lady, and she was coming in, carrying a paper shopping bag from the supermarket. Good morning, she said, in her crisp, well-pressed voice, and then she asked me if I needed anything. I told her that I’d found some crackers in a kitchen cupboard and some jam and margarine in the fridge, so I was alright, thank you very much. She said that it was a shame about the state of the house, but she’d been living in the first-floor flat for over twenty years and she’d watched the place start to fall to pieces. She said she hoped the new owner was going to put some money into the house to bring it back, but so far he hadn’t done anything. I mean, she insisted, the bones of the house are solid; it’s just that the place needs a little helping hand, that’s all. I agreed with her, mainly because I wanted somebody to talk to and she wasn’t judging me. In fact, she was looking at me nicely, and I liked that about her. You know, she said, he might have plans for the place because he’s quite famous. Apparently he’s on the television sometimes. She thought for a moment. You know, he should just invest a little bit of money in our house before it tumbles down all around us, that’s what I think. It could go at any minute.

Last night I couldn’t sleep, so I decided to try and get into the top flat. One of the pieces of wood came loose, but I could tell that it would take some real effort to move the other one. I went back downstairs and poured myself a cup of red wine. In the cupboard under the sink I’d found nearly a dozen bottles of red and white wine and some whisky and vodka, along with three packets of chocolate biscuits and some boxes of white paper napkins that remained tightly sealed in see-through wrapping. This morning I have a headache. I lie on the settee and it occurs to me that I really should go out and set about getting a job, but I can’t help wondering if this is the day that my actor friend is going to come and see me like he said he would. There’s no telephone in the flat, so I can’t call him, and if I go off down the road to try and find a phone box, I might miss him. I reckon I should try and have a bath, but the water comes out brown, and when it eventually starts to run clear, it’s cold like ice, and so I forget that idea and decide that when he comes around, I’ll tell him about the problem with the water. I open the bedroom door to see if it stills stinks in there, and it’s only now that I notice that in the corner there’s a French door to the garden. I stop up my mouth and nose with my hand and pass into the bedroom, and then out through the door, where I discover that everything in the garden is overgrown with weeds and bushes. Next door is lovely, and well maintained, but the garden to this house has been let go, although the brick path suggests that somebody once laid out the place with care. I don’t know the name of the brightly coloured flowers, with orange and yellow petals, that I can see over the broken-down fence, but the truth is I don’t know the names of any flowers besides the ones that everyone knows, like roses and daffodils. But just being outside in a garden lifts my spirits, and suddenly everything seems alright.

The man from next door comes out and starts snipping away at some plants with a pair of big shears. I say hello, but he turns his back and continues cutting up the foliage. I get it. He wants me to know that he’s seen me, but he’s also letting me know that I’m not worth his time. He has on a reasonably smart jacket, and a polo-neck jumper, but the trousers don’t match. They look like something you’d wear on a building site, with stains on the front, and I can see that the back pocket is half torn off. To make things worse, he has on boots that look like they’ve never had a brush over them. My guess is that he’s some kind of foreigner, for he’s trying to say something about who he is with the jacket — or more like who he was — but I can tell that he’s no better than I am, although his behaviour suggests that he thinks he is.

In the evening I hear a knock on the door to the flat, and it’s my friend, standing there with a big bag of groceries and another bag cradled under his arm that is full of bottles that are clanking. He asks me if he can come in like it’s my place, and I just step to one side and watch him drop everything in the kitchenette. He’s wearing his coat around his shoulders like it’s a cloak, and I’m surprised to see that it looks like he’s combed his hair with water, because this can make even the most intelligent bloke look dim-witted. Eventually he rests himself down on the unsteady wooden chair and takes a good gander around until he turns back to me. You’ve not been looking after yourself, have you? I can see it in your eyes, for they’ve got dark circles under them. He stares at the settee and tries to understand what’s going on. He points: You’re sleeping there? I nod, and he shakes his head. He apologizes and tells me that the girl who was here before was a filthy hussy and he should have come and cleaned out the bedroom and made everything decent, but he didn’t have the time. I’m looking at him now because he’s right, he should have made everything decent, for I’m not used to filth, and coming over here with food and drink isn’t going to get him anywhere with me.

He passes me a sandwich and a can of beer. Then he takes the same for himself and comes and sits next to me on the settee like we’re at the pictures, and we both stare out in front of us while we eat and drink. He asks me if I like it here, but my mouth is full, so once again I just nod, and this seems to make him happy. However, he won’t stop going on about the state of the place, and he keeps looking left and right as though it’s all a big surprise to him, but we both know that this can’t be the case. I bought this place as an investment, but it came with a sitting tenant. Have you met the crazy woman yet? I tell him that she’s been very nice to me and I’ve been thinking that maybe she and I can get to be friends. He seems surprised to hear this, but he says nothing and just stands up and goes to get himself another beer. When he comes back, he leans over and kisses me on the mouth, but when I don’t return the kiss, he looks at me like I’ve failed some kind of a test, and then he sits back down next to me. You should get out more, he says.

Last year, when I was in the convalescence home in Bridlington, there was a man who used to try and trick me into going out for a walk with him in the gardens. When he thought that nobody could see us, he would grab my hand and beg me to put it on him, but I reported the man, and somebody must have had a word, for after I told on him, he started to ignore me. Two weeks later my social worker said I could go back to Arnhem Croft, and the following week I went back to work at the library, but Denise told me that I had to be careful because my eyes were saying something that was going to get me into bother with men. I asked her whatever did she mean, but she just laughed and said that we both knew that men liked that big-eyed “help me” look, but I should watch myself. That night, as I was waiting for the lift, I saw Lucy on the playground swings. She was messing about with two boys, and all three of them were passing around a bottle of cider and smoking cigarettes. I looked at her, but I didn’t wave because I’d long ago stopped talking to her mother, who these days seemed to spend most of her time in Harrogate with some bloke who owned his own garage. I was sure that the mother would have poisoned the girl’s mind against me, and I was right because I heard Lucy shout, Oi, what are you looking at, you mad bitch? Then the lift came, and when I got out, I hurried along the walkway to the flat without bothering to sneak a look over the edge because I was pretty sure that Lucy would be staring up and waiting for my face to appear so she could chuck some more abuse in my direction.

My friend stands up and looks at his watch as though he has an appointment to keep, but we both know that it’s all for show. I’ll see you later this week, Monica, but please try and eat something to build up your strength. I’ve left the shopping for you on the counter. I stand up now and tell him that I might not be here as I really need to get a job. This place doesn’t have a telephone, so how can anybody get in touch with me? He looks at me with a hurt expression on his face. Do you want me to put in a telephone? I’m not asking him to do anything; I’m just telling him the facts. I’m grateful that he’s letting me stay in the flat, but I need some kind of permanent address, that’s all. My friend is already standing by the door, and I can see that he’s dying to leave, and it’s obvious that he won’t give me the time to either properly explain myself or thank him for the groceries. Look after yourself, Monica. I hear the front door slam shut, and I hope that the noise hasn’t disturbed the old lady on the first floor.

It’s still light outside, so I rummage around for another can of beer in the bag that has the drinks in it, and then I go out into the back garden and find a spot on the overgrown path where I can sit cross-legged and bathe my face in some sunshine and think again about how to get a job without having to deal with the people at the Jobcentre. I remember now: I forgot to tell him about the bathwater being cold, but it doesn’t really matter as I’ve got used to just splashing some water onto my face and making the best of it. After he kissed me, he told me that I should venture out more, but to where? I’ve not spent anything from the pound note, and it makes no sense to go wasting it when I don’t have another job. When I think about it, the last time I went out by myself was on Christmas Eve, when I put on my coat and left the flat and went to the Mecca Ballroom, although I’d told myself that I’d never again go back to that place.

I sat at a table on the balcony and wondered how a woman like me could have got herself mixed up with a man like that. I knew right enough how it began, but I thought it was my fault that he soon got bored with any intimacy. I was just grateful that he still took an interest in the kids, but when he started asking for photos of them, I should have known, shouldn’t I? I’d had ages now with it all turning over in my head: the four weeks in the hospital, then convalescing in Bridlington, and now back at the flat and working again at the library, and even though people kept telling me it wasn’t my fault (his own sister took her kids off to Canada to get them away from him), I knew that I was to blame, for after he gave me the key back, I got so wrapped up in just thinking about myself and trying to get other blokes to fancy me. I could see people down below on the dance floor, acting stupidly and getting increasingly drunk, and I felt sick in my stomach and wished I’d stayed at home. Tomorrow would be Christmas Day, and just because I’d made a few phone calls to the so-called foster parents in an effort to try and speak to my own son, it turns out I now wasn’t allowed to see him unless my visits were supervised. On Christmas morning I didn’t answer the door because I knew that it would be the social worker come to take me to see Ben. I pulled the blanket up over my head and waited until she’d finished shouting through the letter box before I got up. Then I turned on the television set, and I didn’t move from in front of it for the rest of the day. I thought, he’ll understand why I haven’t come to see him even though it’s Christmas Day. After all, it’s a matter of dignity. Nobody’s going to watch over me while I talk to my son. I’m not a bloody criminal.

After nearly a week locked away in the flat, I decide to take a trip out and present myself at the Jobcentre. However, the mousy woman, with one arm of her spectacles held together with Sellotape, insists that they have nothing for me, and although we manage to keep everything civil and polite, it’s clear that I don’t like her and she doesn’t like me. As I’m walking back to the house, I can see that the man from next door is standing by his gate and looking up at his house, as though he’s making sure that it hasn’t caught some kind of disease as a result of its close proximity to my actor friend’s house. As I pass him by, he speaks without looking at me. Isn’t it about time you moved on? I stop and turn and face him and tell him that I’m a grown woman and where I stay and what I do are none of his bloody business, but I can see from the look on his face that this isn’t going to shut him up. The others didn’t stay this long. Don’t you have a home to go to? I take a step towards him. No, I say, I don’t have a home to go to. Are you happy now? I go inside and hurry up to the first floor and bang on the door of the old lady, but there’s no response. I worry that maybe she’s dead and lying in there all alone, so I sit down outside of her door in the hope that maybe I’ll hear her moving about. But after a few hours it’s still quiet, and so I stand up and make my way back down to the garden flat.

I can’t sleep, so I just sit on the settee and listen to the noises of the night and finally decide that I can’t possibly spend another moment in a house with a dead person, so I put on my coat. When I get to the phone box, I dial my friend’s number and wait, but nobody picks up, so I put down the receiver and try again, but again nobody picks up, so now I don’t know what to do except walk the streets. It’s soon lunchtime, and there’s hardly anybody in the pub, so I buy a half of lager and take it to the table in the corner and drink it slowly, and then fetch a few more, and nobody bothers me. When I’ve finished, I go and call yet again, and this time he answers the phone, and I can hear it in his voice that he’s surprised to hear from me. He tells me that he’s positive that the old lady is fine — she sure as hell understands what is meant by a sitting tenant — then he says that maybe I should think about finding another place, for it’s clear that his flat doesn’t suit me. I don’t know what to say, for I was only trying to be helpful, and I certainly wasn’t expecting this. Look, I’ll come by on Saturday or Sunday and we can talk about it. Maybe go for a drive, he says, and this makes me feel better, although I can tell that he’s just rushing me off the phone.

The weekend is finished, and he didn’t come. I go and knock at the old lady’s door again, and this time I can hear her moving about, and so I definitely know now that she’s not dead and she’s just avoiding me. Of course, the sensible thing to do would be to ignore her, but I stand outside of her door, for I know that at some point the woman has to come out. So, I’m outside of her door waiting, like the time in January that I stood up outside of Ben’s school and waited for him to come out, and all the other boys came out, but not my son. And then a red-faced teacher marched across the playground and told me that I had to go now or they would call the authorities, whoever they might be, and he folded his arms, and I didn’t really see any point in causing a scandal and making life uncomfortable for anybody, including Ben. The next day I could see that Denise was annoyed when the social worker turned up at the library and whispered to me that we had to talk. We went into the staff room, and she read me the riot act and tried to get me to agree that what I did was out of line. Apparently, I can’t wait for my own son after school, it’s not allowed. After my social worker left, Denise gave me my final warning.

A few days pass, and I decide to go back to the phone box down the road. I dial, but nobody picks up the phone, so worried that maybe I called the wrong number, I dial again, but again it just rings out, and so I stand there listening and wondering what I should do now. I don’t have enough money to go to the pub, but I need something to help me sleep, for it takes me ages to nod off, and no sooner have I nodded off than I find myself suddenly awake again, for any little noise or movement seems to disturb me. The day before yesterday I went to the small library opposite the tube station and asked the man behind the returns desk if he would give me a job as I had experience in library work. I told him, I like the smell of books, but he looked at me as if he hadn’t the foggiest idea what I was on about. He was a young bloke, definitely younger than me, and he asked me about my previous employment, but I just stared at him because it got me remembering. About a month after the social worker came to the library, Denise called me into her office and asked me to close the door. Then she just asked me straight out if I’d been around to a Mrs. Gilpin’s house this morning, because she’d just had her on the phone. That’s when I understood what was going on. I didn’t deny it, and I told her that I’d gone around there and knocked on the door and told this Mrs. Gilpin that I wished to see my son, but she just looked me up and down like my label had fallen off and told me that I had to go, but I let her know that I’d go only once I’d seen my son, and that’s when she started to get nasty and said she’d be calling the police if I didn’t leave. Not wanting to provoke a full-scale row, I gave her a piece of my mind and left, but apparently she thought better of calling the police and chose instead to phone my job, and that was all the excuse Denise needed to tell me that I couldn’t work there anymore. Despite our friendship, she said, which made me bite my tongue. What friendship? Ever since I came back from convalescing, she’d kept her distance and treated me like a leper. Monica, despite our friendship, I can’t overlook the fact that you’re habitually late and you just don’t seem to be able to keep your mind on the task at hand. I had to calm this Mrs. Glipin down, as she was ready to send the police around to have a word with you. Now you know that I can’t have police officers coming into the library, you know this, don’t you? I started to tell her that this wasn’t fair, but she told me that she’d already spoken with the council head office, and with my social worker, and everyone was in agreement. They were going to pay me till the end of the month, but as it turned out, they did have a part-time position in another library, if I was willing to think about that, but as of now I was free to leave. And so that was that, and although I didn’t tell the nice young man at the library the whole story, I did tell him that since moving to London, I’d worked at a community centre, but my heart was really in the library profession. Well, he said, but I could see that he was talking and thinking at the same time, we don’t have anything at the present, but if I wanted to try again in the autumn, he happened to know that one of the part-time staff would be on maternity leave. He lowered his voice as he said this, and I thanked him but it didn’t seem right to let on that I’d be back at university in the autumn, so this wasn’t going to work.

I tried the other branch library, but I lasted only a week. It was located on a side street behind an out-of-date shopping centre. Today nobody would think of building a shopping complex that didn’t have a roof, and piped music and warm air, and places to sit down, but this concrete monstrosity was arranged in a big L shape around a huge car park. At one end of the place was a post office, a newsagent’s, a shoe mender’s, a bookie’s, and a dry cleaner’s; at the other end was a supermarket, and hugging the right angle in between was a secondhand charity shop, a maternity boutique, and a council office where you could pay your rent. On the far side of the car park, where the main road was at the farthest point from the shopping centre, there was a row of bus stops with identical plexiglass shelters, and a few seats on which the shoppers could sit themselves down while waiting for their buses to appear.

Around three o’clock in the afternoon was when the first of the men liked to wander into the library. By four o’clock all three of them had arranged themselves around the central reading table, and they busily flicked through the daily newspapers whose spines were wooden sticks. It took me only a day or so to realize that their preferred seating matched exactly where the large clunky radiators were located. It was February now, and the weather was chilly, and these three men liked to spend their afternoons idling in the warmth before I imagined they took themselves back to the pub for the evening. I was pretty sure that their mornings would most likely have been wasted in the bookie’s, before a lunchtime packet of crisps and a pint of beer and then a slow trundle around to the branch library, where they would make themselves at home for a few afternoon hours. Not that I cared, but my new boss clearly did, for I caught the woman glaring at the men and making little attempt to disguise her contempt for them.

By the time the large clock above the door — with roman numerals decorating its face as opposed to numbers — showed five o’clock, I’d have already finished my reshelving, collected my handbag from its peg in the seedy staff room, and be heading out, having nodded a sociable good-night to my boss. But the woman never said a dicky bird in reply, nor did she raise her head up from the checkout desk to look me in the eyes. Resentment, I assumed, at the fact that the local council had placed me in her library as though I were some kind of dodgy gift, and she’d therefore not been given the opportunity to do a conventional interview. Besides me there was only Miss Williamson, who had officially retired five years earlier but who had agreed to help out from time to time, for she was both familiar with the place and had little else to do. However, my sour-faced boss need not have worried herself, for I’d already decided that I wasn’t staying. I’d made up my mind on the very first day that this depressing branch library wasn’t going to be in my future, and on the Friday afternoon I handed in my cards.

I pour the whisky into a cup, but I know that it’s not going to agree with me. However, I need something to help me sleep. When I wake up, it’s bright in the room, and once again I’ve no idea where I am or how I got here. I remember losing Tommy, and the hospital, and then Bridlington, and Christmas Eve at the Mecca, and then trying to see Ben, and Denise getting rid of me, and the useless branch library, and catching the train to London. I remember the room at the top of the house, and the American man in his pinny who’d run away from fighting in the war. I dash into the bathroom, and I’m sick all over the place. I’m feeling too ill to do anything but a little wiping off with some toilet paper and then a quick flush. I drag myself back to the settee and lie down and close my eyes, but my head’s still pounding, so I sit up and try and steady my nerves. I suspect that it’s warm outside, for the daylight bleeding around the corners of the curtains is getting in my eyes. I don’t have a bathing costume, but I reckon if I take off my shoes and strip down to my bra and pants, then I’ll still be respectable. I stand up and hide the bottle of whisky back in the cupboard, and I open the last can of beer and drink it quickly and leave the empty tin on the kitchen counter.

Don’t you have any shame? When I open my eyes, I can see the man from next door staring at me, but I’m not interfering with him. I’m sitting on the small step by the French door minding my own business, and I ask him why he’s looking at me. Now he’s really got his mad up, and he’s shouting and calling me indecent, and why don’t I take a hint and clear off like the other slags? That’s what the man at the Mecca Ballroom called me on Christmas Eve when I wouldn’t let him take me home. You’re just a sorry old slag, he said, and I threw a glass of beer at him, and he said, You’ve bloody gone and done it now. I laughed at him, and then the manager came and asked me to leave. But I’m not going to give this man the satisfaction, so I just stare at him as though he’s talking a foreign language, and when he’s finished ranting, I tell him, all nice and quiet, Don’t talk to me. I can see it on his face that he’s still angry, but he gives me a dirty look, then turns and leaves, and I hear him slam his back door as he goes inside. I’m enjoying the sunshine, and I have a right to be here because my friend said I could stay as long as I wanted and he gave me a key.

I look at myself in the small bathroom mirror and set about putting on some makeup. I place the cup of whisky on the edge of the sink and make a mental note to be careful that I don’t knock it off and onto the floor. My mother gave me my first lesson in how to apply makeup when my father was away on a school trip to the Lake District. However, she warned me that I must never let him see me with mascara or lipstick on, for he’d take a wet flannel to me. It still makes me livid that in his letter he didn’t even tell me where she was buried, which would have been the caring thing to do, so at least I could go there and say a proper goodbye. In the morning I’ll make my way to Hyde Park, and at least I’ll look presentable, so long as I don’t smudge this mascara when I finally drop off to sleep. Tomorrow I’ll find an empty bench to sit on, and then I’ll devise a plan of action that will take me through the summer until it’s time to go back to university. I can admit it to myself now: waiting around in this flat for my actor friend to help me out has been a waste of time. I’ve made a mistake, but when I wake up, I’m going to clear off out of here and start to put things right.

In the morning the front doorbell wakes me up, but I decide not to get up and see who it is, for I have an ominous feeling. However, the person won’t stop pushing the bell, and then I hear loud knocking on the door to my flat, and I wonder if there’s a fire or something because the walloping won’t stop. When I open up, I see a policeman in front of me with his hat under his arm like it’s a rugby ball, and out of the corner of my eye I catch a glimpse of the old lady as she tries to disappear up the stairs before I can see her. The policeman tells me that I have to come with him to the station, for they want to talk to me about something. I tell the man that I have to get dressed, so he says he’ll come inside and wait for me while I do so. And then I see him lift his hand to his face as though he’d suddenly smelt something rank. I’ll wait out here, he says, but leave the door open a little. So he’s standing outside of the flat, and it doesn’t take me long to put on my slacks and jumper and smooth out my hair, but before I even have time to brush my teeth, he’s at it again, banging on the door and telling me to hurry up as he doesn’t have all day. I’m hoping that the officer has a car outside to take us to the station, for I really don’t want to walk down the street with a policeman so everyone can stare at me.

I seem to have been waiting forever in this big wood-panelled room with people sitting, then standing up, then sitting back down again. Everybody’s taking turns to speak, but even though their mouths are moving, I can’t hear any sound, and it’s almost as though I’m underwater. Three wise monkeys are sitting behind a bench, and they keep nodding and looking over at me, then listening to whoever is talking, and suddenly my ears pop and I can now hear the policeman who was knocking on my door talking about how I wouldn’t come out straightaway, and how I put up a bit of a struggle and tried to lock myself in the bathroom. I want to laugh because it seems funny that he should be making all of this up and fooling them, but I can see by the way they are looking at me that this is serious and his lies are making me look bad.

The man from next door has on his smart jacket, and he starts to talk now, and he says that I dance about naked in the garden, which is also a lie. I’m thinking to myself that this man must be sad and lonely to have to make up stories like this about a woman who hasn’t done him any wrong, but I know that I’m not supposed to say anything, so I just stay quiet and listen to one lie after another and I try and work out for myself just what is happening. Then things get really out of control. The old lady stands up and says that she tried to be courteous to me, but apparently I don’t have any decorum. One of the magistrates speaks to her directly now, and he asks the woman if I’ve ever harmed her in any way, and she shakes her head. He asks her if she has seen me wandering about naked, and again the old lady shakes her head, but she seems confused. Then she repeats herself, this time very slowly, and insists that I don’t have any decorum, as if this was some kind of crime.

I feel the hand of a policewoman squeezing my elbow, and she tells me to get up in a sweet voice like she’s my friend or something, and one of the magistrates asks me if I understand the gravity of the situation, and so I nod and say yes, but I’m not sure what all the fuss is about. I haven’t mistreated anybody or damaged any property, so why can’t they just mind their own business? The same magistrate starts to ask me about my actor friend, calling him Mr. Francis, and he wants to know how we know each other, and so I tell him that we met in a pub by the community centre, and I leave it at that. Has he ever troubled you? What business is it of his? But I tell him no, and he asks me if any other men have touched me since I’ve been in the flat, but before I have a chance to tell him what for, he wants to know where I get money, and if any men have ever given me any money, and I say no, then no again, then no in a louder voice, and now the sound has gone again, and I can’t hear what they are saying, but I’m talking and my arms are flying about in front of my face and I’m still talking, and I’m trying to get my arms to stay still, but I can see from how these people are looking at me that I’m not making any sense.

The policewoman is in the back seat of the car with me, while an older woman in a blue jacket and white frilly blouse is twisted around in the front passenger seat so she’s facing me. She keeps asking about my family, and if I have anybody that I would like her to get in touch with, but all I want to know is where is this car taking us. Again she starts up tormenting me with the family talk, almost begging me to tell her if the man who owns the house is my boyfriend or just somebody I see from time to time, and she asks me this as though whatever I say will be alright by her and won’t cause any problems for anybody, but I can tell by just looking at her that this ignorant woman has never read a book in her life, and so I don’t say anything and I close my eyes.

After I stopped turning up at the library by the shopping centre, there was nothing to keep me in the city anymore. I was banned from both my son’s school and the house he was living in, and the social worker had told me that I had to give him some space. So I thought, I’ll give him some space and I’ll move to London for a few months and let everything settle down. But before I took off for London, I had to sort something out. As I walked down the cul-de-sac, I saw him bent double over his car, mercilessly polishing the bonnet with a yellow duster, and behind him the sprinkler was taking care of the front lawn with its absurd, robotic rhythm. I came right up next to him, and when he looked up, I could see it in his eyes that he wasn’t sure. I’d weathered a bit since he’d last seen me, and I’d also chopped my hair really short. Jesus, I’d been through a lot, so what did he expect? He seemed lost for words, but I had no intention of standing there playing silly buggers with him, so I just asked him straight out to give me something of my mother’s, a brooch or a necklace, as I was going to London and I wanted to take a part of her with me. Monica, he said. Please, Monica. But I cut him off and told him that it was wrong of him to do what he’d done and not tell me that she was ill, or even let me know where she’d been laid to rest, but he didn’t say anything; he just held on to his cloth with both hands and stared. And then he told me to wait where I was, and he disappeared inside the house. When he came out, he handed me her slender gold watch and three five-pound notes and told me that this was all he had in the house, but it was to help set myself up in London. I looked at him but said nothing, for he was a small man now. I hope, he said, then he stopped. I thought, God, he’s not going to bawl, is he? I hope that you find what you’re looking for in London, he said, and I hope that you know you’ve always got a home here, but then he dried up. He just kept staring at me until I couldn’t take it anymore, and so I turned and walked away. And this woman in her ridiculous frilly white blouse wants to know about family?

I sit at the back of a room with a group of women, and we’re all watching the BBC news on a colour television set that’s stuck high up on the wall. The place is like a prison, but it’s not a prison. It’s also cold, even though it’s summer outside, and the room is lit with ugly fluorescent tube lighting. When I got here, they took away my clothes and then told me to take a shower. When I finished, they gave me this nightdress to wear. It makes me look undignified, and I have a feeling that this is the idea, but at least it’s clean. I asked for a belt as the thing is hanging off me like a tent, but they let me know that no belts are allowed. I then had to open my mouth and stick out my tongue, and they gave me a tablet that started me going all fuzzy, then tired, and then the coloured nurse said that I would soon be asleep, but I’m still sitting here watching television although I’m not sure what the man on the news is going on about.

The nurse has a deep cleavage, and she should cover herself up more. She asks me whatever did I eat to make myself so sick, but before I can reply, she pushes my head down into the plastic bucket and tells me to let it go — you’ve got to get it all out — but I haven’t eaten anything all day, so there’s nothing to come out. I’m trying to tell her that it’s the bloody tablet that’s made me sick, but I know she doesn’t believe me. She gives up and slowly gets to her feet. I watch her wipe her hands on the backside of her uniform, and then we look at each other for a moment before she starts to talk. They put you in this isolation room because you’re a top risk, Monica, but it’s up to you. If you want to do something irresponsible, then go right ahead, but you’ll have nobody to blame but yourself. I don’t say anything, and we continue to eyeball each other. Look, she says, if you want to put something on your stomach, just press the bell, love. I hate to see you like this. Really, you need to pull yourself together.

Apparently the library trolley comes around every morning. The volunteer woman stands by the door while I look at the books that are piled on top of it without any order of any kind. Everything’s just random, and then I notice that the woman has put a hand on her hip. Don’t you like reading then? She’s smiling now, like she’s got one over on me, but it’s easy to tell that behind that wide forehead of hers nothing has been imprinted. You know, it helps to pass the time if you read a bit. There’s one there on royal gardens, you might like that, for there’s lots of pictures in it. It’s quite popular actually. I look at Miss Librarian and wonder what her problem is. How dare they call this thing a library trolley? Book trolley would be better, for all it contains are scattered books that people have left behind, and I don’t get the sense that this woman gives a damn whether you ever return them or not. I pick up the glossy book on royal gardens and realize that it would have helped if my actor friend had brought me a book or two to the flat. Now that would have made the time pass a little easier.

At the end of the day the coloured nurse knocks on the door, and she opens it without waiting for me to say anything. She tells me that it’s six o’clock and time for me to go to the dining room and meet some of the others now that I’ve had a rest. But one look at the place, and it’s clear that I can’t stay, as it’s full of people sitting at tables in neat rows like some kind of eating factory, and I ask the nurse if I can please go back to my room because I’m not feeling too good. She says I’m free to go back by myself anytime I like, and so I tell her thank you. But she doesn’t stop there. She looks hard at me and then nods as though a thought has just struck her. You can also go outside to the courtyard and then come back in and eat a bit later. You don’t have to run off to your room if it’s a ciggie that you want. I want to laugh, but I keep a straight face and I tell her that it’s alright, it’s just that I’m not feeling too well.

Jesus, I shouldn’t have said that, for now I’ve got the doctor standing over me. I’m sitting on the edge of my narrow bed, looking up at him while he shines a bright light into my face. He has a beard and moustache, and I wonder why he wears them because they make him look older than he is. He has to be about my age, but he looks about fifty-odd, and his teeth are yellowing, which isn’t right for a doctor. I can give you only one pill at a time, and I’m afraid I can’t leave the bottle. You’re not very good with pills, are you? He looks at some papers in my file and asks me what went on at the house in Shepherd’s Bush, and then he quizzes me and wants to know about any male visitors. I shake my head, and he mutters something to himself and asks me if downstairs is itching, but the coloured nurse seems annoyed and whispers in his ear, and he stops his questions. I remember when the detective came to my hospital bedside and told me that they’d found him. It was maybe a week after he’d gone. That’s when I took the pills. I’d swiped a bottle when nobody was looking, and I tipped them all out on the bed. It said there were twenty-four, but it turned out there were only twenty-three in the bottle, and I wondered how many times I’d been done like this. I took them, one at a time, but it didn’t work, and they soon brought me back around. Anyhow, I suppose all of this is in my file.

I wake up in what feels like the middle of the night, but the door is locked from the outside, and the room is pitch black. They didn’t tell me that they lock us in at night, but I’m not surprised. I fumble my way back into bed and pull the scratchy blanket up to my chin and reckon that I’m probably in this so-called hospital because I won’t tell them what they want to hear. When I was a girl at school, I was always the one asking questions. Then, when the two boys came along, I was the one always answering questions. Now I don’t ask questions, or answer them, which is probably why everybody’s fed up with me. There’s no mirror in this room, which I’m sure is deliberate. In fact, there’s nothing in this room except me and the bed. I can’t remember much else about the room, or even what I’m wearing, so I’ll just have to wait until the light begins to stream in at about five o’clock, I think, but I’m not sure how long I’ll have to wait.

The coloured nurse has brought me a big bowl of cereal and a plastic spoon, and she’s set them out nicely on a tray. She asks me how I slept, and I say, very good, although the right answer would be, not much, but I don’t want to be rude. She tells me that the doctor has said there’s really no reason for me to be here and that things have obviously just overwhelmed me, haven’t they? I agree and tell her that I’m going to university in October, and she gives me a crooked smile. That’s marvellous, darling, but you’ve still got to eat. She tells me that it’s another nice day, and I tell her that if I wasn’t in here, I’d be in Hyde Park. Well, she says, I’m sure we’d all prefer to be in Hyde Park on a day like this, but I think you’ve got to try to trust people a little, and not be so defensive. Not everyone’s out to get you, love. If you open up a bit, then we can assess you properly, and the sooner we do that, the sooner we can think about you leaving.

I sit in the common room next to a woman who is too thin. She asks about my book, and I decide there’s no reason to ignore her. I can see the veins sticking up on her arms, and her face is all angles with a thin covering of skin pulled tightly across her skull and cheekbones. What makes it really sad is the fact that she’s pretty, or rather she was pretty, but I imagine that nobody’s ever told her this. I open the book and explain to her that it’s all about royal gardens, and she says that my accent suggests to her that I’ve travelled quite a distance, and I tell her I must have because I used to have two children and heaven only knows where they are now. I laugh out loud, and so she laughs too, just to be polite. That’s funny, she says. I let her know that after the pills I spent another three weeks in the hospital and they told me that Ben would have to stay with these Gilpin people. At least until I was back on my feet and capable. That was nearly a year ago now. Last summer. She mops her brow with the sleeve of her nightdress. It’s hot, isn’t it? Yes, I say, and then she tells me that she’s sure I’ll like it in the courtyard. After everything I’ve just told her, that’s the best she can come up with? It’s hot and I’ll like it in the courtyard. I’m sorry, but nobody can say that I didn’t try. Once I realized that I’d messed up, I did everything I could to try and get Ben back. She suggests that we go for a walk and have a little explore. What’s your name? I tell her Monica, and she seems to think that’s quite a pleasant name. A bit unusual, she says, then smiles. But quite pleasant.