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 looked around Dolly’s bedroom in horror, the hanks of hair seemed to have become even more disturbed than Edie could remember. They hung around the room like cobwebs and single strands hovered, wafting like fine tentacles as they floated in the draught from the hallway.
‘Christ! If Miss Havisham had made it to her wedding night, I reckon this is what the room would’ve looked like.’ Sophie said, making to step into the room more fully, then thinking better of it.
‘I didn’t have you down as a literature lover.’
Sophie scowled at her. ‘I might be temporarily indisposed, but I’m not thick. I read.’ She prodded at a pile of abandoned clothing with her foot. ‘Bloody hell, where d’you start?’
‘Here.’ Edie said, leading her across the landing and into Beattie’s small, cell like room. ‘It’s not so messy, but it is damp and the wardrobe needs clearing and there is a bit of junk that could do with sorting. It might be worth stripping that bed and giving the mattress a good airing, I’ll buy a cover for it later, I’m not sure what state it’s in. Once it’s cleared you can sleep in here.’
Sophie looked around the small room, a look of considered approval on her face. ‘Ta,’ was all she said, though she accompanied it with a nod of satisfaction. ‘So what do you want me to do with the stuff?’
‘Anything that is obviously rubbish, just throw. Her clothes can go in bags for the textile recycling, I can’t imagine any charity shop wanting them and I can’t for a minute think that there would be much call for fancy dress where crimplene and nylon are concerned. My grandmother wasn’t exactly a natty dresser. Anything you think might be important – photos, document and the like – put in a box and I’ll go through them later.’
Sophie nodded. ‘Righto boss. Ummm, I don’t suppose you’ve got any more of those painkillers have you? I hurt my ribs and they’re playing me up like a bastard.’
Edie fished in her pocket for the ibuprofen she had bought that morning with the breakfast goods. ‘Here, I got these. You’re really not going to be up to much, are you? Not in this state anyway.’
Sophie flapped a hand at her. ‘No worries, I’ll be right in a mo. I’ve had worse. Not saying I’m up for moving furniture like, but I can manage to chuck shite in bin bags.’
Edie passed her the medication, wondering at the wisdom of leaving someone who she hardly knew, who regarded other people’s belongings as ‘shite’ (and who, if profanity were removed from the language would have very little to say) in charge of clearing out Beattie’s room. She shook the thought off. It wasn’t as if she could really afford to care what happened to the contents of the house, as long as they were cleared and she could leave – it didn’t really matter what anyone did with her grandmother’s belongings. ‘Well, as long as you’re sure?’ she said.
‘Oh stop fussing will ya? Bugger off and go shopping, I’ll have this place sorted in no time.’ Sophie said, gazing casually at the plain contents of the small room.
Edie cut across the park, skirting the now familiar murder tourists and their unhealthy obsession with Winfield’s more murky past. She was thinking about Sophie again, about the bruises on the girl and the cut on her face and about what would happen to her when the house was finally cleared. Edie would be gone by then and Sophie would have no roof again. There had to be something out there for kids like Sophie, something more than other people’s sofas on good days and shop doorways on bad ones. Perhaps, Edie pondered, there was some kind of charity that might help, or there might be a local hostel which she could persuade Sophie to try. Her thoughts were still running the possible scenarios of a less precarious future for Sophie when she reached the high street and had to stop to get her bearings. For some reason her preoccupation with the homeless girl had made her forget that things had changed in Winfield. The high street was no longer the bustling and lively place that she remembered, it was now a half boarded up commercial wasteland of charity shops and pound emporiums. She paused, sighed and looked along the street to see if anything vaguely familiar to her younger self still stood. With some relief and not a little nostalgia she spotted the Swiss Cottage café and, two doors down from it, Bryers and Brynt – purveyors of hardware and household goods. The fact that B&B was still in business was bizarrely gratifying and Edie felt a small smile tilt at the corners of her mouth as a memory of the place took hold. Recollections of the smell of beeswax polish and the sheen on the old mahogany counters, and the two old men who’d been the sons of the original Mr Bryers and Mr Brynt reinforced the smile as she strode towards the kerb, ready to cross the road and revisit her childhood.
She stopped in her tracks at the sight of Sam, standing outside the cafe and engaged in what appeared to be a heated conversation with a large man who was built (as her mother had been fond of saying) like a brick shit house. He was huge, with shoulders like a lintel and a musculature that strained the seams of his black wool coat. Even more incongruous than his size was the coat itself, it was August and although not baking hot, warm enough for shirtsleeves. The coat was a uniform, a statement and a badge of office. He looked like a bouncer, or some kind of hired thug, and from what Edie could see he was looming over Sam and exuding increasing amounts of menace. Sam wasn’t a small man himself, but he was dwarfed in the face of this giant and every time he attempted to step back and maintain his personal space, the man took a step towards him and narrowed the gap. Sam’s usually relaxed and handsome face had taken on an expression that smacked of mild panic, it pinched his features and showed his age. Fear did that, Edie knew. She saw it in her own face every time she looked into a mirror.
For a moment she hesitated and thought about turning round and walking back towards the square so that she could claim ignorance and avoid any liability for the scene that was unfolding before her. Not that she had any idea what might happen, it was the sense of escalating tension that came across the road in almost tangible waves that triggered her anxiety and awakened the fight-or-flight mechanism in her brain. She could run, but would she ever forgive herself if something happened to Sam and she hadn’t intervened? Swallowing down her better instincts, she checked for traffic and strode across the road, waving at Sam as she went and catching both men’s attention with the movement. ‘Sam,’ she called out when she was only a few steps away from the kerb, ‘fancy seeing you here. I was hoping I’d bump into you.’ She stepped onto the pavement and patted her chest in mock breathlessness as she turned to the giant, giving him what she hoped was a dazzling smile. ‘Hello, sorry to interrupt, just wanted to catch Sam before he disappeared!’ she said, with a laugh that was tinny and falsetto and as fake as the smile. The giant frowned at her.
