have written, had he been struck to anthropomorphise a hedgehog. The thought of it made her want to snort with laughter and she had to bite her tongue to avoid the disrespect.
She took her own tea to bed, but didn’t drink it and instead lay awake thinking of the task ahead of her and trying not to dwell on the brooding presence of Matt Bastin, or the equally brooding disapproval of the woman downstairs. All she needed to do was clear the house, hand the keys to an agent and leave. Rose could take care of the rest. How hard could it be?
Sophie lay stiff and aching on the lumpy sofa listening to the ticking of the mantle clock and contemplating the oppressive atmosphere of the house. The tablets that Edie had given to her had taken the edge off, but her ribs still grated where Johnno’s fist had bruised them and every now and then her face pulsed with pain.
She hadn’t taken Edie’s advice and had a bath, everything hurt too much for that, but she had salvaged the flannel and had a quick lick round with that. It would have to do for now, she hated being dirty but a quick wash was all she’d been able manage. Waves of nausea lapped like the tide and she could feel the soup and bread rolling and washing in her stomach. Throwing up wasn’t an option. In her situation food could be hard to come by; you had to hang on to it no matter what.
An attempt to shift position winded her and made her grit her teeth, for the first time in an age she felt as if she wanted to cry. Not because of the pain, though it wasn’t helping, but because of Dolly. The woman was gone and Sophie hadn’t known. That was the trouble when you shifted about the place sofa surfing (and sometimes settling for doorways) – you couldn’t keep in touch and you couldn’t keep an eye on people who mattered. She wasn’t quite sure why Dolly had mattered, she’d been a funny old duck, but she’d been kind in her way and good for a few quid from time to time. Sophie pondered whether what she was feeling might be grief – she had spent so many years being angry it was hard to recognise other emotions, but this hollow, empty feeling seemed to fit what she understood of the concept. Unless it was more hunger. Sophie was equally familiar with that sensation.
The house felt weird without Dolly, and the inroads into the mess that the woman Edie had made seemed to Sophie like something important ran the risk of being eradicated. Sophie was kind of glad she was nomadic, it would take thirty seconds for someone to dump her rucksack in a bin – thirty seconds, job done, all Sophie Hedley’s worldly goods, all she stood for, eliminated in an instant. No one would experience grief, or even hunger, at her demise. In fact she would be surprised if anyone would even notice. Probably better that way, no legacy, no ripples, no homeless people spending the night on your uncomfortable sofa. What was with this sofa? It felt like she was lying on a sack of rocks, and it wasn’t just the bruised ribs that were making her feel it. She shoved a hand beneath her and felt around. Sure enough there was a lump in the foam. There was no way she was going to be able to sleep with that digging into her back, and she was a girl who could sleep anywhere – doorways, park benches, you name it.
With some effort she slid off, grunting as her ribs grated and sang with pain. A zip in the back of the cushion allowed access to the foam inside. The zip was stiff, had probably rarely been opened, and it took a moment of careful and gentle persuasion before the teeth parted and allowed her to slip in a hand and feel about for the object that had been causing so much discomfort. The foam was old, had started to disintegrate and left a grainy and unpleasant residue on her hands. The texture of it made her grimace as she groped about, her fingers finally finding the item that she sought. It felt like a book, a book that someone had wedged between the layers of ancient foam. Weird. She tugged at it, but it had been there a long time and resisted her efforts. The foam had become tacky and had adhered to the cover, Sophie tugged and worked her fingers under and around the book until finally it came free and she could pull it out. The light in the room was dim, the bulbs as old and weak as Dolly had been, and Sophie couldn’t really make out much from the pages of the notebook that had faded, foxed and stuck together in the passage of time. It seemed to be some kind of copybook, lists, money, boring stuff. She wasn’t much bothered about what the pages held, only that the bloody thing would no longer be preventing her from sleep. With irritation she wiped the cover on the carpet and threw the book into her backpack, then she wiped her hands down her jeans and reassembled the cushion. With mounting exhaustion she put it back, climbed onto the sofa and attempted to sleep.
Edie found her there the next day, curled up, hair tousled, mouth slack and with her T-shirt ridden up and revealing the ugly, mottled bruise that had bloomed on her torso overnight. As she observed the sleeping, broken girl, sorrow clutched at her heart. Lena’s disapproval had inclined her to think that she should ask the girl to leave, but this sight changed everything. Edie knew what it was to feel lonely, vulnerable and without hope. She had never been homeless but had sold her soul to keep a roof over her head and food in her belly. If being married to Simon hadn’t been a deal with the Devil, she didn’t know what was.
For a moment she contemplated taking the girl’s bag and washing the clothes that were inside, the whole thing stank and so did the girl, but who was she to intrude on the girl’s possessions? Instead she wandered through to the kitchen, filled the kettle and began to cook the bacon and eggs she had brought with her. As she fiddled with the food a plan began to form in her mind.
The smell of cooking must have woken the girl as she came sidling into the kitchen, yawning and shuffling and rubbing the back of her neck. ‘I smell bacon, is there coffee? I could murder coffee,’ she said blearily as she slumped into a chair next to the faded Formica table.
‘There is coffee.’ Edie said, pouring boiling water into a mug of instant. ‘It’s not great but it’s wet and it’s warm. Oh, and I’ve sorted you some clean clothes out – some of mine, I’ll wash yours if you like.’
Sophie took the drink and frowned. ‘Why are you being so nice to me? Food, shelter, clothes, offers of washing, what’s the catch?’
Edie paused, the grill pan in one oven-gloved hand, a piece of bacon dangling from a fork in the other, and examined the girl’s look of suspicion. She wasn’t sure she liked a world where kindness and compassion had to be explained and justified.
‘No catch, but an offer. You need a place to stay, I need some help. This place won’t clear itself and I can’t face it on my own. I don’t know how long it will take, but you can stay here and help me until I hand over the keys. I’ll feed you and sort out a bed for you to sleep in, I’ll even buy you a bar of soap and some shampoo…’ she added as she passed a plate of food across the table.
Sophie scowled at the perceived insult and took the food, inhaling the aroma and letting the nectar of it relax her features. ‘No skin off my nose.’ she said, shrugging and dipping a folded slice of bread into her egg. ‘As long as you’ve got rubber gloves, I’m not touching anything without gloves. This place is minging!’
Edie looked at the grim state of the girl and smiled as pots and kettles came to mind. She sat down in front of her own breakfast. ‘OK, and yes, I have gloves. I figured you could start by clearing one of the bedrooms. I’m going out in a bit to buy some bedding so at least we’ll have something clean and dry to sleep on.’
Sophie paused, a chunk of sausage poised precariously on her fork stopped in mid-air, interrupted on its journey to her already full mouth. ‘You said “we”, I thought you was staying next door?’
‘I was, but I don’t want to outstay my welcome. You can clear and clean the little room and sleep in there, I’ll take the sofa.’
Sophie shrugged and shoved the sausage into her mouth. She chewed twice and swallowed. To Edie, watching Sophie eat was much like watching a snake consume its prey whole; inconceivable and uncomfortable.
‘S’your funeral, that bastard thing is like an instrument of torture – I’ve slept on more comfortable benches than that sofa. Why don’t you have one of the other bedrooms?’
It was a good question. ‘I’ll show you in a minute and you’ll see why.’
Sophie