The Mistake I Made (3 page)

Celia’s house was a detached cottage. Ours was a semi; the other side of my house was a holiday home. I never saw the owners. Instead there was a parade of similar kinds of people – folk who smiled if the sun was shining, were grim-faced and uncommunicative if it was not.

Remember the village of Greendale, from the children’s television programme
Postman Pat?
Well, Greendale doesn’t exist, but it was modelled on Longsleddale, a spot over on the other side of the lake, and it’s close enough to form a fairly accurate picture of Hawkshead. Five hundred people live in the village and, aside from the holiday makers, everyone really does know everyone. Set amongst farmland (mostly used for grazing sheep), the stone or white-rendered cottages are bordered by dry-stone walls. Those of us in the village centre benefit from gas and mains drainage, those on the outskirts heat their homes with electricity, or more commonly oil, and have septic tanks. Everyone within a mile of the village centre has a small notice next to the loo, requesting guests not to flush anything other than the necessaries, and the smallest amount of toilet tissue. It’s something you’re used to if you’ve grown up with it. Like sterilized milk and half-day closing.

Celia must have been loitering by her window, looking out for us, as the second we opened her gate she was at the front door. ‘Good Lord, George!’ she declared loudly. ‘What on earth have you done to your hair?’ I suppose he was kind of scalped above his ear. ‘He looks like that simple lad, Billy. You know, from
One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest
?’ She was frowning, her chin retracted. ‘Doesn’t he, Roz?’

‘What does she mean, Mum?’ George whispered, worried, as we approached the house.

‘Nothing. Just an old film. Billy was the kickass hero,’ I lied.

‘You saw the note?’ Celia asked, and I nodded. ‘Come in, come in,’ she said and ushered us through. George removed his shoes automatically without being instructed to do so.

‘Did you call Transco?’ I asked her, and she didn’t answer. Instead she became momentarily flustered, telling George to ‘Go through to the back kitchen and find Dennis. He’s out there messing about with his tomato plants. And Foxy’s in the garden, too.’

Foxy was Celia’s old dog. She was a spiteful, peevish little terrier who hated kids but for some reason allowed George access to her belly when she was in the right mood. She had recently started to refuse to walk on the lead. That is, unless, she was heading back home. So now Celia and Dennis could be seen driving to the other side of the village, early each morning, whereupon Dennis would deposit Celia and Foxy, and they would walk back. Celia was delighted with this ruse, proclaiming Foxy to be ‘almost sprightly’, even pulling on the lead.

George traipsed off to find the dog, and Celia swallowed hard before speaking.

‘A problem,’ she began.

‘A gas problem,’ I said.

‘Afraid not. I put that note there to stop you from going inside. I didn’t want George to see.’

‘To see what?’

‘Prepare yourself, Roz, the bailiffs have been.’

‘What did they take?’

‘The lot. Well, all except the beds, because they belong to your landlord, apparently, who
has
also been slithering around, leaving his usual trail of slime, asking if I’d seen you. He left you a note demanding payment, I believe.’

‘I’m late with the rent.’

‘I did assume,’ she said. ‘Anyway, the three-piece suite has gone—’

‘I was paying that off,’ I interrupted.

‘As well as the dining-room furniture, the cooker—’

‘The cooker?’

‘They said that was on finance as well.’

I sank down heavily on to Celia’s sofa. ‘It was.’ I sighed, remembering now.

‘I think they would have had your car away as well, if you were home. Good job I saw them, because they were about to break in through the front door. They said you’d be liable for the damage to that, too.’ She paused. Then said, ‘
Bastards!
’ emphatically, before continuing. ‘So in the end I let them in with the key. Sorry, Roz, but they had all the right legal paperwork. I got Dennis to take a look at it before, and he said you didn’t have a leg to stand on.’

Dennis used to work in a solicitor’s. Doing what, I’m not entirely sure. Celia, naturally, liked to give the impression he was a solicitor, but I had noticed that Dennis had been quick to point out on more than one occasion that he was
not really qualified
to give advice.

Sitting with my head in my hands, I told Celia that it was okay to use the key. ‘You did the right thing,’ I said, because she was wringing her hands and I could tell she wasn’t sure how I was going to react.

‘I thought it best to stick that note on the door, and then you could prepare George. Not nice for the child to get home and have no furniture.’

‘Did they take his PlayStation?’

Celia nodded.

‘Bloody stupid thing to have anyway,’ I said. ‘Typical of his father. We can’t afford to put fuel in the car and he goes and buys him that. And of course George loves him for it. Thinks I’m Cruella when I can’t buy games for the thing.’

‘That’s men for you. No common sense.’

‘Christ, Celia,’ I said, the full weight of what had happened now dawning on me. ‘What the hell am I going to do?’

I left George with Celia and went to inspect the house.

The place had been gutted. They’d taken stuff I didn’t even know I owned until it was gone. Pictures I wasn’t particularly fond of. Cookery books I never had time to read but were part of my history, that time when I revelled in domesticity for a few short, wonderful months when George was born.

It was like going back to the seventies when people owned nothing. When bare asphalt floors were the norm and orange crates doubled as bedside cabinets.

There was even an ugly, gaping gash in the fitted kitchen where the oven ought to be. That’s when I made the decision not to face the problem tonight. George needed a quick bite to eat before we were to leave for Petra’s party. ‘
Dress smart! Think cocktail dress!
’ she’d inscribed on the invitation with a silver metallic gel pen. And so I headed back to Celia’s with a change of clothes for us both, ready to collect George, with a hasty plan forming in my mind:

I would have one large glass of cold, white Torres Viña Sol in the King’s Arms (low ceilings, horse brasses, welcoming smell of beer hanging heavily in the air) while George shovelled down Cumberland sausage and chips, and
then
I would tackle the furniture crisis, explaining to George the reality of our new situation.

The note from my landlord would just have to wait.

4

GEORGE SAT IN
the front seat of the Jeep with a clip-on tie and a worried expression.

‘Will I have to go and live with Nanna Dylis?’ he asked, after I’d finished explaining what had happened to the furniture and given him a quick lecture on that basic principle: don’t spend more money than you have.

‘No,’ I replied, hoping he wouldn’t sense the uncertainty in my voice.

We were just about to board the ferry to cross the lake to Petra’s house in Windermere, so George became silent. There’s a tricky bit that must be negotiated, where the ramp of the ferry meets the dip in the shoreline. If you don’t drive carefully you’re liable to take out the underside of your car. Not such a problem in a Jeep, but hell if you’re in a low-sitting sports car.

Once I’d cut the engine and was neatly positioned I told George he could speak again if he wanted to.

‘This is because of Dad, isn’t it?’ he said.

‘Honestly?’ I replied. ‘Yes. But there’s no point blaming him, because it gets us nowhere. What we’re going to do is put it out of our heads until after Auntie Petra’s party. Let’s enjoy ourselves tonight and worry about it tomorrow. We’ve got beds to sleep in, we’ve got running water, and we’ve got each other. We’ll be fine.’

The truth was, though, we weren’t fine.

When Winston left I could no longer make the mortgage payments on either our house or my business premises, and they were repossessed by the bank. Coupled with that, Winston had run up debts to the tune of twelve thousand on a credit card that was in our joint names, and now I was barely covering the minimal monthly payments.

Though I couldn’t blame Winston totally.

Five years ago, life was good. We were earning plenty, we spent freely (more money than we had), and we thought it would continue like that for ever. But an event was to cause a change in our circumstances, and we didn’t change along with them. Not nearly fast enough anyhow. Winston’s building firm lost its major contract and his hours were cut, along with his hourly rate. Ultimately, we fell apart. Winston left and I found myself without a home, without a business, and with a small child to support.

I probably should have declared bankruptcy at that point, but a combination of pride and a fear of being refused credit in the future prevented me from doing so. I borrowed some money from my sister for a deposit, rented a house, purchased a few bits and pieces on finance to furnish the place, and now, thanks to Winston and the exorbitant monthly interest on the credit card, I carried a debt of close to eighteen thousand pounds.

After rent, the cost of my car, food, household bills the ferry, after-school club, and the loan repayments, my wage from the clinic left me with around fifty pounds a month to spare – if things didn’t go wrong. And things always went wrong.

I glanced at George to check if he was okay with what I’d just told him, and he seemed to be. His expression became wistful, as if he’d already moved on to other things. Kids. So resilient.

‘Foxy bit me,’ he said after a minute or two.

‘Again?’ I asked, and he nodded. ‘Did it hurt?’

‘No.’

‘Show me,’ I said.

He held out his hand and there was a small, raised nub of flesh on his knuckle, but no break to the skin.

‘She didn’t mean to do it,’ he said. ‘Sometimes she can’t help it. I don’t think she realized it was me. Is she blind? Celia says she is.’

‘Getting that way,’ I replied. ‘Although Dennis reckons she can see next door’s cat well enough.’

We had a dog. Once. A three-year-old shaggy lurcher which George named Cesar after his hero, the ‘Dog Whisperer’, Cesar Millan. George asked for a dog every Christmas and birthday from the time he was able to talk. When he was six, Winston and I finally acquiesced, and there never was a happier child than George Toovey.

Two years later and after Winston moved out, the dog had to leave, too. We tried to make it work. But finding a rental property which allowed dogs, and the hours I spent at my job made it untenable. I’d like to say George bought the lie all parents tell their kids when they’ve taken their pet to the shelter – the one where the dog goes to live on a farm somewhere, running free, all happily ever after – but George insisted on my calling the Rescue Me animal shelter to check Cesar was okay and was told by a kind woman that he’d been adopted by a little boy around his own age who was enjoying his new companion immensely.

George still wasn’t over it and was counting down the weeks until we could move from our current address into a more permanent accommodation, where animals were allowed. I told him this wouldn’t be any time soon, but he remained undeterred, keeping his dog-ownership skills up to date by continuing to watch Cesar Millan whenever he stayed over at Winston’s mother’s house. She was fortunate enough to have Sky TV.

I smiled at George and reached across, tousling his hair above his bald patch. ‘I love you, you know,’ I said to him.

‘Love you more,’ he said back.

We drove with the windows down because the AC was out of gas. Along the roadside there were mounds of cut grass and their desiccated hay scent filled the air. Couples walked arm in arm, making their way into Bowness for the evening. George rested his elbow out the window, as he’d observed adult men do. But not having sufficient length in his arms, he was forced to lean awkwardly against the door.

My hair whipped around my face, strands sticking to my lipstick, some getting caught in the tiny hinge mechanism of my sunglasses.

When we arrived at Petra’s I checked my face in the rear-view mirror and quickly applied some lipstick and mascara. I’m not great with make-up. I mention this not as one of those statements you hear from irritating women – you know, when you’re supposed to feel crap because you trowel it on and they’re already naturally beautiful without it. No, I feel kind of silly wearing it, and only do so when forced. On occasions such as this.

At my sister’s house I stood on the front step, rearranged my hair, adjusted the straps of my halterneck summer dress and whispered to George not to mention the situation at home. When he raised his eyebrows questioningly, I told him this was Petra’s night and I didn’t want her to worry about us. Which was mostly true.

Vince, my brother-in-law, swung the door open with his usual gusto, took one look at my painted face, and grinned, saying, ‘What’ve you come as?’

‘Not tonight, Vince,’ I said, pushing past him. ‘I’m not in the mood.’

‘Hey, Georgie boy!’ he said, slapping George’s raised hand. ‘How are you, my friend?’

‘Very well, thank you … under the circumstances,’ replied George a little stiffly, and Vince shot me a look.

‘Are we very late?’ I said, avoiding.

‘No more than usual,’ Vince shrugged before turning his attention back to George. ‘C’mon, kiddo,’ he said, ‘let’s get you armed with sugar and a ton of E numbers, ready to face the team of
petites dragonettes
upstairs.’

Vince was more at home in the company of kids. After a couple of beers you would find him wearing mascara (applied badly), and with one of Petra’s underskirts on his head (long, princess hair), after he’d been attacked by his daughter and her bossy little friends.

He was good with the girls, but it was common knowledge that Vince craved a son. Petra had managed to quash that idea by selling the notion that her death was an absolute certainty if she became pregnant again. This was on account of the high blood pressure and gestational diabetes she had suffered when carrying Clara.