‘She’s…’ Joan’s voice broke on a sob, before she shook her head in frustration, sucked in a deep breath and swallowed the tears back down. ‘She’s just been extra tired this week, so it takes longer for her to clean the houses and then she gets home later, so there isn’t as much time, and then she’s even more tired. Once she’s feeling better, she promised we’ll have a big spring clean and a sort-out and get everything nice again. We’re going to bake cakes and go on a picnic.’
I nodded. ‘That sounds lovely.’ I hoped Joan couldn’t sense my creeping fear that whatever Leanne’s problem was, it wouldn’t be better any time soon. Not without help, anyway. ‘But you know, most people, when they’re not feeling well, really appreciate someone giving them a hand. How about you jump in the shower, I’ll pop a load of clothes in the wash and then we can do some tidying up. We could even cook her a nice meal. That would be a lovely surprise to come home to after a long day at work.’
‘I’m fine. I had a bath yesterday.’
In a sweat-filled, grimy pond, maybe.
‘Okay. Well, you go and grab your school uniform, and whatever else you’ve worn this week, and we can put the washing machine on. We should have time to do your sheets and towels, too.’
Joan made a grunt of frustration. She swiped another tear away, squeezed both eyes shut and folded her arms. ‘It’s fine. We don’t need your help!’
A sudden thought occurred to my ignorant, privileged self. ‘Do you have a washing machine?’
‘Yes!’
I waited. The façade continued to crack.
‘It’s broken, okay? Happy? Like the shower and the oven and most other things in this house.’ She kicked at a chair leg, which tilted three inches to the side, causing the pile of papers and other mess to slip off onto the floor, as if proving her point.
In answer to her question, no, I was not happy. I felt as though my heart had cracked right down the middle. I wanted to scoop this precious girl up and carry her far, far away, to a world where nothing was broken, neither household appliances nor people. Where women didn’t have to bundle their baby out of bed and flee in the middle of the night with nothing but a couple of tatty rucksacks and the scars of trauma and abuse. Where working your backside off six days a week, leaving your child to fend for herself for hours on end, meant that at least you had enough to put food in the fridge and pay for a plumber so you could be clean, and hang on to what remained of your dignity.
I couldn’t take Joan out of this miserable situation. I prayed it wouldn’t spiral to the point where someone else had to, for her own protection. The prospect of having to call social services filled me with thick, black dread.
I summoned up the strength to eradicate the jitters from my voice, and persuaded Joan to spend an hour in my bathroom while I lugged bin bags of clothes and bedding and towels across the garden and piled them in a disturbingly high pile in front of my washing machine.
By the time the first load had finished, a washing line had been strung up between two trees at Joan and Leanne’s side of the lawn. I waved my thanks at the kitchen window of Middle Cottage, trying to stem the flood of tears before Joan was finished in the bathroom.
We spent the afternoon cleaning and sorting what we could. I filled both our bins to the brim, avoiding touching Leanne’s meagre possessions apart from when it meant clearing a path through the mess, and asking Joan to fetch her mum’s dirty washing so I didn’t have to go into her bedroom. We scrubbed the kitchen and bathroom, Joan’s little face scrunched with effort as she scoured the sinks and cupboard doors, Nesbit wagging his tail beside her. I lugged my vacuum cleaner around and we dusted the chipped, wonky furniture. We finished off by filling old jam jars with flowers from the garden, and placing one in each room. I also left toothpaste, soap, shampoo, toilet paper and sanitary towels in the bathroom. Drawing the curtains and opening the windows did wonders to lift the oppressive atmosphere. By the time I had a bolognese bubbling on the one working hob, a pan of spaghetti at the ready, the house almost resembled a home again.
I couldn’t decide whether to wait for Leanne to come home or not. Would she handle the invasion better if I wasn’t there to witness her response? In the end, Joan asked me to go. She may have predicted her mother’s struggle between pride and gratitude, and wanted to avoid me making clumsy comments that would make her feel worse.
I sat and tried to force down my own plate of pasta, ears straining for the sound of New Cottage’s front door closing. I could imagine Ebenezer in between us, holding his breath.
It was nearly eight when she found me in the garden. I kept my head in my book, pretending I hadn’t seen her until she came to a stop in front of my chair.
Heart hammering, I looked up to see Leanne standing there, arms folded inside her thin cardigan, hair scraped into a harsh ponytail, jaw set, eyes brimming with tears.
‘What the hell?’
I swallowed back my nerves, pretended I was the type of confident, socially adept woman who knew how to befriend other women, and nodded at the chair beside me. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ The warm evening felt perfect for a glass of wine, but I was wary about offering Leanne alcohol.
She stared at me for a long, agonising minute with eyes that were sallow, sunken slits.
‘Or lemonade?’
‘Go on, then.’ She gave a dismissive shrug as though she couldn’t care less either way. It was hard not to smile in surprise, having seen Joan perform that exact gesture dozens of times.
I got up and went inside to fetch two glasses, and then a far better idea hit me. A few minutes later I found Leanne, slumped in my spare chair, arms still wrapped tightly across her gaunt body.
‘It’s this way,’ I ventured, suddenly aware that I hadn’t figured out this part of the plan.
‘What?’ Her eyes narrowed in suspicion.
‘Come on. It’s much comfier inside.’ I adopted the smile that I’d perfected over decades of trying to appease my mother, holding up both drinks like a stranger luring a child with a bag of sweets.
With an impatient huff she heaved herself out of the chair with the effort of a woman three times her age. I couldn’t quite believe she actually followed me into the house and up the stairs, but I supposed she was simply too weary to argue. I ducked into the bathroom ahead of her, turning off the taps and checking that there were enough bubbles, and that the candles were still lit.
‘Towels are there. It’s a spare robe so don’t worry about giving it back. Chocolate, radio and I’ll leave your drink here. Take as long as you need. I’ll be in the garden in case Joan wonders where you are. Oh, and there’s plenty of hot water if you want to top it up.’
