The Day She Came Back(45)
‘I’ve never smoked cigarettes or drugs, but I guess that won’t surprise you.’ She ran her fingertip over his bare arm, enjoying the moment and liking the Victoria that was emerging from the chrysalis fashioned of lies and betrayal. Flynn took a deep drag and closed his eyes before reaching across to hand the joint to her.
Victoria took her time, her hesitancy not brought about by fear or indecision but a wariness of doing it wrong. She didn’t want to show herself up, having had enough humiliation over the last week or so to last her a lifetime.
How could you be the only one not to know?
‘You want to try it?’ he asked, waggling the offending article in her direction with only a hint of teasing.
My mum smoked weed, she took pills, she did worse and it nearly killed her. In fact, as far as I’m concerned, it did kill her, and so I feel a bit scared, really scared. Suppose I’m like her and can’t stop? I guess there’s only one way to find out . . .
‘Sure.’
The afternoon had been an intriguing one, an education for sure. Once she had got over the unpleasant burning sensation in her throat and lungs, she and Flynn had laughed at just about everything, because everything seemed so funny! And time seemed to pass much, much more slowly . . . Then, with locust-like appetites, they polished off the remainder of Mrs Joshi’s chicken, along with the rest of a loaf of bread and three packets of biscuits.
It was early evening and, with Flynn in the bathroom, Victoria stood in the kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil, desperate for tea to slake her thirst. It was in that instant that she heard Prim’s voice in her ear, as surely as if she were standing behind her.
What’s going on, Victoria, darling?
‘I like him. And I like having someone here. Not that it’s anything to do with you, not any more,’ she whispered. There was no answer forthcoming and she closed her eyes tightly, wishing she could communicate with her gran right now. Not only did she want to discuss the boy in the garden room, but also, she had a list of ever-growing topics she wanted to scream at her. She was desperate for answers.
You looked at me and lied!
You put your arm across my back and told me my mummy was in heaven!
You let me plant a little tree for her and buy cards for her that we put on the fire, hoping the words might fly up and reach her ears!
You held me tight when I sobbed with longing for her!
You told me lying was the worst thing, the very worst thing!
You didn’t let me see her and you didn’t let her see me!
And then, all of a sudden, it was again one of those moments when everything felt a little overwhelming. Her tears came in a rush, upsetting the natural rhythm of her breathing and making her nose run.
‘Hey, hey . . .’ Flynn rushed over to where she stood and put his arm around her shoulders. Her nose wrinkled a little at the scent of weed, body odour and the residue of the food he had fried for breakfast. Were it not for the warmth and comfort she took from the feel of his body next to hers, she would undoubtedly have pushed him away.
‘I don’t know what’s happening to me.’ She slumped down on to the old linoleum floor and sat with her back against the cupboard, raising her knees, on which she rested her head. Flynn sank with her. Her body shook with the fear that every solid foundation of her life was turning to dust. ‘I am on my own, Flynn.’
‘You are going to be fine. Even if it doesn’t feel like it right now. You are strong; strong and smart, remember?’
She shook her head. ‘I was strong because I was on solid ground. I had Prim’s backing and support: she was always here. And now she’s not and it’s like my safety net has disappeared. A safety net that I now know was full of bloody big holes. And I don’t feel strong at all. I feel really lonely, and I’m mad, Flynn, angry! So much has happened. I don’t know who I am.’
‘It’s okay, Victoria. Don’t cry.’
He placed his head against hers and, in that instant, she felt a little confined. Gently, she eased herself from his grip to stand, making her way back to the garden room, where evidence of their drug use littered the floor and a cool breeze from the open French doors washed over her. She laid her hands on one of the worn potting tables, the surface of which had been scrubbed over the years, so the wood was bare and pale. Dirt, however, still lurked in the deep crevices and cracks, which, if the table could talk, would no doubt have revealed decades of chatter over its knotty surface, as Prim and Granny Cutter strived to better their green-fingered credentials. This particular tabletop was crowded with seedlings in compostable paper cups and plants in various stages of legginess. There was also a small, sharp pair of secateurs resting on a single floral gardening glove, the suede finger panels stained green, their worn shape bent to accommodate the hand of the person they fitted so perfectly. To see Prim’s tools and her handiwork close up was the final jolt Victoria’s sadness needed to flood her being.
‘I just need a minute, Flynn.’
She spoke as she rushed from the room, up the stairs and into Prim’s bedroom. She lay face down on the soft selection of vintage pillows, all faintly tinged with the scent of Chanel No5, and sobbed. It was both distressing and cathartic to give in to the desolation that consumed her. She whispered to her gran with her eyes closed.
‘How could you do it to me? How could you? You must have known I would find out, and you robbed me of the chance to hear you explain! And to know your reasons . . . it would have helped, but right now you are just a liar. A liar, Prim! You have spoiled the way I love you because each time I think of you I see Sarah at the side of the lake, saying, “This will be hard for you to hear . . .” And when she spoke I thought my heart might explode! It’s not fair, Prim. Didn’t you think I had enough to deal with?’