The Silent Girls

‘What’re you doing?’ he demanded.

‘Being polite.’ she said, dropping her hand and turning to Sam. ‘What was that all about?’

Sam took her elbow and steered her towards the café. ‘Just business, nothing to worry about.’

Edie wasn’t so sure – though the pinched look had departed, his voice still sounded as if it had come from behind gritted teeth. A muscle, fired by tension, twitched in his jaw. ‘Are you OK?’ she asked.

Sam’s eyes narrowed, then in an instant the tension was gone and the familiar smile broke across his features. ‘Of course, why wouldn’t I be?’ He nodded towards the café. ‘Fancy a coffee, as we’re here?’

The sudden change in demeanour rattled Edie for a moment, but she was so relieved to see the familiar relaxed and cheerful Sam that she shook off the feeling and returned his smile, ‘Why not?’

The Swiss hadn’t changed at all, in fact as Edie looked at the yellow stained walls and worn wooden tables she wondered if the owners had even decorated in the thirty odd years since she had been there last. A memory of drinking hot chocolate and eating cake with Uncle Dickie rose like a bubble and popped on the surface of her consciousness. ‘Dickie used to bring me here for hot chocolate,’ she said, as Sam found them an empty table.

‘Yeah? He was a nice guy as I recall.’ Sam said. ‘So do you want hot chocolate now so you can relive your childhood? Or are you going to settle for a nice, grown-up coffee?’

There was a slight smirk hiding in Sam’s smile and the sight of it sent a frisson of embarrassment through Edie. She certainly had no desire to relive her childhood and felt irritated at the suggestion that she might. ‘Coffee please. I don’t believe in going backwards.’ she said, with more grit than she’d intended.

‘Fair enough.’ Sam waved to the waitress and made their order. ‘So how’s it going? Have you discovered the family jewels yet?’

Edie laughed. ‘Hah, some chance of that! No, it’s going OK. The sooner I get it done the better.’

‘Have you started on Dickie’s room yet?’

‘No, I haven’t touched the bedrooms, I’m kind of building myself up to it. Dolly’s is a nightmare – every time I think about it I feel like packing my bags and running away!’ she said it with a laugh, as if injecting humour into the prospect would somehow lessen the veracity of her desire to cut and run from the whole thing.

‘Ah, it won’t be that bad once you get going. We managed the lounge easily enough, didn’t we? Why don’t I come round and give you a hand again? I could sort Dickie’s room, while you tackle Dolly’s.’

It was a kind offer, but Edie felt that she’d already taken up too much of his time and Lena’s kind help. ‘Ah, no, it’s fine. I’ll manage. You and your mum have already done enough. I’m very grateful.’

To her surprise Sam reached across the table and took her hand, squeezing it warmly. ‘It’s no problem, we like to help. I want to help.’

Edie was acutely conscious of the warmth of his touch on her skin. Fortunately their coffee arrived, borne on a worn out tray, which was wielded by an equally worn out waitress by the look of her. Edie pulled her hand away from Sam’s and reached for her cup. ‘It really is kind of you, but I’m absolutely fine. I have a friend helping me now, so I won’t need to impose on you or your mum. In fact I’m off to buy some bedding in a minute so that I can move back in. Much as I love your mum’s company, I’ll get a lot more done if I’m “in situ” rather than gossiping to her every evening.’ She added a smile and sipped at her coffee. It was piping hot, too milky, cheap and burned her tongue. She winced at the pain and put the cup down as if it was the vessel’s fault she’d scalded herself.

Sam ignored his own drink and peered at her. ‘Oh? Who’s the friend?’

Edie avoided his eyes and glanced around the seedy café. ‘Just a girl I met, she’s helping me out a bit. I feel kind of sorry for her, she’s sort of on her uppers and needs a bit of help.’

Sam frowned, as Edie expected he might. ‘Are you saying you’ve picked up a stray and let her loose in the house, Edie? Are you sure that’s a wise move?’

Edie was rarely sure of anything these days, but she did know that it was her decision and that she didn’t need to justify it. ‘I’m happy with her there, I trust her.’ For instance, she wasn’t sure that statement was true, but was equally unsure she wanted to debate it with Sam. Nice as he was, appealing as he was, he wasn’t her keeper.

Sam’s frown deepened, he seemed to be thinking. ‘Hmmmm, well, I hope you don’t regret it. Why don’t I call round later, help you out a bit and make sure this “friend” is the full ticket and not intending to rip you off?’

Edie really didn’t want to be rude, wasn’t even sure she was capable of it – she sometimes felt that her default setting was ‘polite people-pleaser’ – but this overprotective streak in Sam was starting to grate on her. ‘Thanks, but it’s fine. Honestly. I’ll take my chances.’

Sam shrugged and sat back in his chair. ‘Fine, fair enough, just looking out for you that’s all. This place isn’t what it used to be Edie, you can’t go around leaving your back door open and expecting no one to walk in and help themselves these days.’

Even though she was bristling on the inside, Edie smiled. ‘I know, in fact I might just do that – if people walk in and help themselves it will save me a lot of work!’ It came out with another laugh that was a little too tinny and a little too high. Sam was making her nervous and she wasn’t sure why. ‘Anyway, let’s change the subject. Tell me what happened to all of the old shops along here that I remember. What happened to the butcher, Mr Lovell wasn’t it?’

Sam answered her question without enthusiasm, explaining that the demise of the high street had been a typical thing – out of town supermarkets had been built, the community had broken down, the socio-economic state of the area had taken its toll… Edie sipped the now drinkable coffee and listened patiently, grateful that she was no longer under the spotlight of his attention. When the conversation had petered out, and they had both finished their drinks, there seemed nothing else to do but thank him and get on with her day. He seemed distracted and preoccupied, and Edie was worried that her defensiveness had offended him. Outside the café she hesitated, wondering if she should acknowledge her concern. ‘I hope I didn’t annoy you Sam, I really am grateful for everything you’ve done, and for this – the coffee and the company.’

He seemed to snap out of his mood at her words. ‘No worries, you didn’t offend me at all. I’m just concerned for you. Anyway, I won’t interfere where I’m not wanted.’ He accompanied his words with a wan smile, which made her feel she had just put a dent in something that she might need – his friendship.

‘Oh Sam, I’m so sorry. I just didn’t want you to think I couldn’t manage things on my own. I don’t want you to think of me as some burden who’s turned up out of the blue!’

He slid an arm around her shoulders and squeezed, then to her surprise dropped a kiss on the top of her head. ‘You’ll never be a burden Edie, I’m just happy to help. Anyway, I’m off. People to see, things to do.’ He squeezed her shoulders again.

As he walked away her words of farewell seemed to hang on the air like the smoke from a cigar. She felt like she had given in to something, let him win in some way – but win what? Surely she was the one who had gained by maintaining their connection. Whatever. She pushed the strange feeling away and walked into Bryers and Brynt in search of bedding.

***

Alone in the house after Edie had gone, Sophie looked around the kitchen and contemplated washing up the breakfast things. She supposed that she ought to really if she wanted to show some appreciation for the food in her belly and the roof over her head. Washing up was probably the chore that she had loathed most at home, mainly because ‘stepdad’ number seven had chosen to use his half eaten meals as an impromptu ashtray. The memory of cigarette butts protruding from uneaten piles of cold food like little gungy stalagmites turned her stomach. As did the thought of him with his sly leers and wandering hands. With a shudder she turned her back on the dirty dishes and headed upstairs, taking a roll of black bags, a pack of cleaning wipes and a pair of rubber gloves with her.

Beattie’s room might have been less cluttered than the others, but it had suffered from the same degree of neglect, and the faint, musty smell of mushrooms lingered in the air. Dust coated every surface and the desiccated carcasses of dead insects peppered the edges of the room. The windowsill alone looked like a moth and fly graveyard. Sophie grimaced at the thought and decided to start with the wardrobe and build herself up to dealing with the dead bodies.

The wardrobe doors sighed and sagged open at her tugging. They were swollen with damp and once ajar, released a foetid lull of air, which felt to Sophie like the breath of history curling into her face. Beattie’s particular history hung in the form of a few simple dresses and one good coat, which dangled limp and lonely from a rusted hanger. She gathered them up and bundled them unceremoniously into a black bag that initially refused to play ball and resisted her by folding in on itself and twisting away. She gruffly forced it into submission and rammed the clothes inside.

If she had been more patient, and looked at the clothes, she would have had to picture the shape of the woman who wore them. Having their owner manifest in her mind was too much; she didn’t want that, and quickly followed the clothes with shoes and a handbag made of stiff dry leather. She tried the clasp, but it was old and obstinate, much as she imagined Beattie had been. Everything in the wardrobe found its way into the black bag, including a faded, moth-eaten felt hat with a cluster of age-paled wax cherries on its brim. It crowned the heap of apparel in the bag and was sealed away with all the other things long past their wear-by date.

Despite her conscious refusal Sophie couldn’t help her mind constructing a picture of the woman who dressed in black crepe and who thought that a hat with cherries on the band was the height of haute couture. Sophie wasn’t entirely sure about haute couture, it seemed to be something for posh people with more money than sense. Beattie had not been posh; she had resoled her battered leather shoes, and kept mothballs in the pockets of her coat. Even now the faint tang of camphor hung in the air like a waft of bad breath.

Beattie seemed to have lived a life of frugality and austerity in a room so free of fripperies that it resembled a nun’s cell. The only nod to vanity was a tiny glass dish on the tallboy, containing a few hairpins. It was situated directly under a pock marked mirror, which distorted even Sophie’s fresh young face with its cuts and bruises. The room felt sad, lonely and almost punitive to Sophie – it was hard to imagine the demeanour of a woman who would choose to live like this. Even through the barrier of the loose rubber gloves she could feel the essence of the old woman’s despair penetrate her skin and seep into her bones, where it sat like a winter chill, brooding, ready to pounce and make her heartsick. It wouldn’t take much, she was heartsick already.

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