for a can of his favourite cat food from the little cupboard under the sink, feeling the pull in her knees as she slowly bent and straightened again. She would keep the cans somewhere else, if only there was space, but every cupboard and shelf in this tiny kitchen was already jam-packed with stuff. Soup and beans, lined up in military order, labels outwards, and umpteen packets of porridge, all bought in as emergency supplies, for the days she either couldn’t or didn’t want to trudge to the shops. Mugs and glasses and cups. Far too many cups. As if an army of visitors was likely to appear, demanding tea. And the teapot itself, of course. The best one. Her favourite, blue and white Wedgwood, far too good to use, but such a joy to look at. She remembered the day she’d rescued it from the storage boxes, just before they were consigned to William’s dusty garage.
She slotted the can into the opener on the wall and pressed the button, watching the thing turn and the lid disengage easily, smoothly, like magic. Whatever next? Self-filling kettles? Bin bags that took themselves out to the dustbin? Sheets that fitted themselves onto the bed? How technology was moving on, changing, sweeping everything along with it! And here she was, trying so hard just to stand still.
‘Here, Smudge. Smudgey, Smudge. It’s tuna time …’ She was aware of how silly she sounded, her voice high and shrill as it penetrated the near-silence of the small yard outside the window, but she didn’t really care. Not any more. You reach an age when what other people think of you no longer matters, when you can finally say and feel and do as you please, and for Agnes that age had come a while back, soon after the big house move, and the loss of her garden, and the rather symbolic removal of the teapots, when she’d felt, as she still did, that she’d allowed others to take control of her life for long enough and there was nothing much else left to lose.
And then there had been Susan’s departure, of course, and her son left shell-shocked and alone. That was when Agnes had finally let it all out. Let rip, as they say in the American films on the telly, and told her son what she really thought. She may even have used a few swear words. In fact, she was sure she had. The look on William’s face! The frustration, the anger, the sense of loss, out it had all tumbled. If only it had raised its head a little sooner, she might have told that bloody wife of his what she’d really thought of her. To her face, instead of shouting it at William, who just stood there, like an empty shell, and said nothing at all.
Vigorously she scraped out half the contents of the cat food can into a bowl and rattled the fork against the side as a ‘come-home’ signal, her eyes scanning the fence line and the roofs of the sheds beyond. It was surprising just how quiet it was back here, compared to the bustle of the street at the front. High buildings, all close together, high fences and walls. It was how she imagined it must feel peering out from a prison cell at the boundaries built with no other purpose but to keep you in. And there was that crying again, breaking the peace and quiet, like a knife slicing through butter. And it was in bloody stereo now! Two kids bawling their heads off, from two different flats up above. And she’d been worried the other residents might object to her having a pet!
She was about to shout something through the window, suggesting they keep the noise down, but that was when she saw a movement in the corner of the yard. Two front paws appeared like little Punch and Judy finger puppets on the top of the fence and Smudge hauled himself up and over, then scrabbled clumsily down the wooden panel in a flurry of damp fur and scraping claws. She knew what he would do now. A leap up and through the small kitchen window was a bit too tricky for the poor old cat, so he would stroll around the edge of the yard, squeeze through the gap under the side gate that led out to the pavement, climb the concrete steps and wait to be let in at the front door.
Agnes pulled the window shut with a satisfying slam, sending little splashes of rainwater dancing all over the draining board, and lowered the blind, then went out of her flat into the shared hallway to open the front door and await the return of the warrior.
*
Lily woke up on the carpet, curled into a tight little ball, pressed against the side of the sofa. She had fallen asleep crying, in great noisy gulps, and now her cheeks were sore, and she was cold. The curtains were open, and the tree out on the pavement was swaying in the wind and rain, its leaves making scary shadowy patterns on the wall. Lily felt around for Archie and found him under a cushion.
She remembered that she had been playing tea parties with her dolls, talking to them so the room didn’t feel so quiet and empty. She’d put the TV on. She knew how to do that, pressing the buttons on the mote. There were no kiddie programmes on, just grown-up things, but she’d left it on to stop the quiet, and gone over to the sofa and climbed up, but then she’d leant over too far to grab for Archie and they’d both fallen off it, and she’d banged her head a little bit and that had made her cry.
The TV was still on now as she woke up, turned up a bit too loud. The dolls were lying down on their sides. Maybe they had needed a nap too. All the plastic cups and plates were still spread over the floor, and the little cardboard packets too, the ones she used when she pretended the flat was a shop and Mummy came and bought things with money from her purse. But none of it was real food, and she was hungry. Archie was hungry too.
When they went into the kitchen, Lily’s bare feet slapping on the hard lino floor, there was nothing cooking. Everything was still and quiet. The big ironing board was up, a pile of clothes on top of it, the wire from the iron hanging down to the floor but not plugged in. Lily reached up and touched the iron, very carefully with one finger, in case it was still hot. It wasn’t. It was cold. Mummy must have finished the ironing but forgotten to put the iron away. Mummy always put the iron away. But Mummy still wasn’t here.
She opened the door of the fridge, looking for food, and the light came on, showing her what was inside. She would have liked to eat a biscuit best, but the biscuits were always kept in a tin high up in a cupboard she couldn’t reach, and Mummy never let her have one before her dinner. But the fridge was where Mummy kept the things she was allowed to eat. The fruit and carrots, and things dinner was made of. She felt in the see-through drawer at the bottom and found a baby tomato. It was icy cold, and the juicy pips spurted out as she bit, dribbling in a sticky line down the front of her pyjamas. She offered one to Archie, holding it to his furry lips, but he wasn’t very hungry after all, and he whispered that Lily could eat it for him if she wanted to. When she shut the fridge, the light went out and the kitchen felt all horrible and spooky. Quickly, she reopened the door, pulling it all the way back until it stayed there and dragging a chair over to wedge against it, and the bright light shone out like a shiny white square in the corner of the cold grey gloom.
She needed to do a wee. The nappy she was wearing was only meant to be for nap times now that she was nearly three. Not for when she was awake. She didn’t know if she should just wee in the nappy. It felt really heavy already, and Mummy might be annoyed with her if she didn’t try to hold on until she could climb up onto the toilet or use the potty.
Maybe she should just wait. Hold on. Jiggle up and down. That sometimes helped, like when they were in the supermarket and they had to leave the trolley with all the shopping in it and run off to the Ladies, the one with the pink door. She had to jiggle then, and squash her legs together, which made running much harder to do, but they always got there just in time, and Mummy would laugh as they walked back afterwards, and wondered if they would remember which aisle they’d left the shopping in.
Maybe Mummy had gone to the shops now. But she’d never gone by herself before. Never left Lily behind. The wee feeling was getting stronger. She didn’t know what to do. Maybe she could ring Mummy. She walked to the phone. It was on the table by the front door, its long green wire hanging down, all curly like a snake. She picked it up and listened. There was just a buzzing noise and she wasn’t sure what to do next. What buttons to press.
‘Mummy?’
Nobody spoke. There was just the buzzing noise.
‘Mummy?’
But the phone just kept on buzzing in her hand.
The wee was trying really hard to come out now, and she was trying really hard to stop it. She dropped the phone, still buzzing, onto the table, and tugged at the sticky strips sticking up over the waistband