The Woman Next Door(67)

‘Bertie?’ says the little girl in her flat voice. It is in marked contrast to the beatific smile that almost splits her face in two.

The pinch-faced woman scans me up and down as she approaches, brandishing keys. ‘What are you doing here?’ she says.

I take a deep breath and try to hide the nervous wobble in my voice as I reach into my bag for the cloth. Amber squeals when she sees it.

‘Mummy! It’s my cuddly!’

‘You dropped it in my street,’ I say gently and then, to her mother. ‘Look, I’ve come to talk to you about Jamie. And, and … about Melissa.’

‘Oh, have you now.’ Her expression hardens further and her cheeks pink as she wordlessly gestures for me to go inside.

The flat is tidy but strangely cold. There’s an ugly black stain of damp behind the enormous television. I’ve never understood why people with very little money have the need for expensive electronics, but there we are.

I perch on a battered sofa so low my knees sag to the side and glance around at my surroundings. The sitting room is small, with a nylon carpet like something you might find in one of the more run-down doctor’s surgeries, and there are a couple of flowery prints in frames on the wall. Glancing around, I jolt at the large framed photograph of mother, child, and … father, all tumbling together and laughing in a photographer’s studio.

I won’t look at it.

The woman, who reluctantly told me her name is Kerry when I offered mine, would no doubt have simply interrogated me on the doorstep. But little Amber, mistress of her domain, almost dragged me into the flat before her mother could protest. She claimed she wanted to show me what sounded like ‘Doggie and Uncle Dave’. I think I may have misheard.

Kerry offers me tea in a flat tone, eyes as dead as a shark’s. I accept and try to concentrate on what I intend to say. This seemed like an excellent plan when I initially thought of it. I liked the idea of Melissa’s face encountering those false nails. Hell hath no fury, and all that. But I feel rather out of my element in this council flat.

Doggie turns out to be exactly that, a Hush Puppy toy that has been loved into a state of greasy, limp submission. The other toy thrust at me by an eager Amber appears to be, as I believed I’d heard, called ‘Uncle Dave’. It’s a strange sort of clown toy. Amber is telling me something in a garbled stream of consciousness that I can’t follow when Kerry comes into the room holding two mugs of tea. She places them none too gently on a low coffee table next to a couple of hair scrunchies and an ashtray with a single squashed butt.

She hasn’t brought milk separately. I only take the smallest splash in a cup (Earl Grey, preferably) brewed very strong. I stare a little queasily at the beige liquid in the chipped mug.

‘She calls it that because we once joked its hair was like our Dave’s,’ says Kerry now, jutting her chin at the ragged headed toy I’m pretending to admire. As if I’m meant to know who ‘Our Dave’ is without explanation.

‘Oh,’ I say with a polite smile. I can’t think of a suitable response and force myself to sip the tea. I think I may have grimaced involuntarily because, when I meet Kerry’s eye, she is looking at me with an expression of disapproval.

She takes a savage sip of her own tea and then bangs it down with a heavy sigh before fumbling in the pocket of her sweatshirt.

‘Hey, Amb. Go play in your room while Mummy has a cig.’

The little girl gets up and obediently carries the toys towards the small hallway. Honestly! Surely the adult should smoke outside! But I bite my tongue.

Kerry lights up and I force myself not to waft the sickly smell away with my hand.

‘Come on then,’ she says, blowing out a thin stream of smoke and closing one eye. Her accent makes me think of Coronation Street, pies, and fog. ‘Tell me the worst.’

‘Well …’ Being in control for once tastes cool and sweet on my tongue, like melting ice cream. ‘I happen to know that your chap stayed the night at her house. And that they were, I’m sorry dear, but they were, well … intimate.’

Kerry’s face folds inwards. ‘I knew it. Fucking bastard!’ she says. ‘Where’d he go then? After?’ She blinks hard, several times and I can see she is struggling not to cry in front of me. A shiver of sympathy passes through me, despite it all.

‘That I don’t know,’ I say and clear my throat. ‘Maybe you should go and see her again. Really have it out with her and clear the air? After that you can try and move on. For Amber’s sake?’

I think this is rather a good little speech, if I say so myself, so it’s a surprise when Kerry barks a bitter, contemptuous laugh.

‘Oh yeah?’ she says. ‘You do, do you, Mrs Helpful? You have no fucking idea.’

I don’t see any reason for her to be so rude when I am trying to help. ‘No idea about what?’

‘What it’s like!’ she says, ‘Living in this shithole. He told me he had something on that was going to change everything for us. We had big plans.’ Her voice skids at the end of the sentence and she swipes furiously at her face, as though trying to push away the weakness.

Amber saves me from finding something to say by bustling back into the room.

‘Mummy finish ciggie,’ she says and Kerry, to my surprise, stubs it out.

She is probably much younger than she looks, and I try to picture her at Tilly’s age. Did she have the dreams of any young person? Or had her upbringing prepared her for a different, more mundane life?