Snap. Flutter. Crash.
The post arrives a little earlier than usual but it will be dealt with in the same way. Flyers and junk will be placed in the recycling box, lying dormant until Robin can summon a surge of nocturnal energy and rush it all out to the brown wheelie bin under a protective night sky. The bills will be filed away in trays in the office/spare room, still in their envelopes, most recent at the front. Everything is paid by direct debit, but Robin likes the feel of a hard copy. Generally, that will be all, but sometimes a white envelope will sit among the rest, looking shiny and other. It will not be opened. It will not be filed. It will be picked up gingerly and placed on the pile of identical white envelopes, up high on the unused wardrobe, where they can do no harm.
Robin is not alarmed by bills. Bills get paid. Robin has money; the pot has diminished but there’s enough to last awhile longer.
She was—nominally still is—the lead guitarist of a British rock band, Working Wife. A string of top 20 albums, a handful of singles that caught the imagination of the radio programmers and burst out of their niche, plenty of insertions on compilation albums through the noughties. Somewhere, she might still be hanging on a bedroom wall or two, her guitar slung over her shoulder, her lip curled. Maybe even the picture of her from FHM, when she was featured—in her trademark shorts and tank top, sulky in makeup she didn’t want to wear—amongst the gaggle of bare bottoms. The headline: WEIRD BUT WOULD.
Onstage with Working Wife at their peak, she’d come alive. She’d grown from five foot nothing to five thousand feet tall. A Catherine wheel of energy, grinding out chords that cut through the air like chainsaws. She could make whole audiences sway or pogo up and down like a tidal wave. Storming off the stage while the last notes still rang through the air, wet through with sweat, heartbeat as loud as drums. She’d fed from their adulation until it choked her.
When she’d crawled out of the limelight, the band was already old news. But the embarrassment at those memories was still acute for Robin, even though very few had seen those last public moments.
What would those once-keen fans think if they could see her now?
Having filed the post—no white envelope today—Robin hovers by her bedroom window at the back of the house. The front is out of bounds. One of her curtains moves ever so slightly in time with her breath. She tries to keep it still with her fingertips but it just spreads against the glass. She does the same to the other curtain so at least everything is equal. She swallows hard and ragged, does it again to keep things even.
In the Watkins/Magpie house, the adults are lying on the sofa in the back of the room. The little boy is sitting at his miniature table, tongue poking in concentration as he builds something out of LEGOs. It’s a mishmash of colored bricks, slabs of roof jutting out. He sits back to admire his work, smiles and gets down carefully to go and paw through a stack of soft toys, pulling out something small that looks like a bunny. He is lifting a few of the roof slabs from his building to carefully place the toy inside, when something makes him jump and he knocks the building to the floor, his little hands covering his face in defeat.
Robin looks into the main room to see what spooked him and sees the adults in the kitchen, gesturing wildly and obviously arguing. It looks like Mr. Magpie has a phone in his hand and he’s shoving its screen at his wife’s face, pointing at it as she tries to grab it. The little boy appears and the adults spring apart and affect casual poses so disingenuous that Robin feels embarrassed. All couples fight, but there’s more to this. The man just needs to open his eyes to the full picture. Robin is determined to help.
A young guy is moving into the ground-floor flat underneath the Magpies. He has a stream of helpers, and he is directing them as they cart boxes and bags around.
He’s kind of handsome, smiley, but his features are loose and babylike.
There are different types of boxes. Half of them are brand-new and have the name of a packaging company on them, while the others are bashed in and all different sizes. Robin wonders if he’s moving out of a relationship, if this is his new “bachelor pad” and he’s putting a brave face on everything.
The boxes in Robin’s dining room have the name of the removal service she found over the Internet when arranging the unexpected move here. They are all lined up, logos facing out, like a soccer team having a one-minute silence. One day, she’ll be brave enough to open them. To let their grief spill out into the room. But not today.
SARAH|PRESENT DAY
3. Neglect
This one I knew as soon as Jim said it. It was old. Over three years out-of-date, but even at the time, I’d known it wouldn’t be forgotten. It was the look he’d given me that day. More of a pause, like he was taking a mental picture and filing it away. But he didn’t say anything more. He’d had a lot going on at the time and was only starting to surface himself.
I’d fallen asleep while I was looking after Violet. The night before had been rough. She couldn’t settle, didn’t want to feed, didn’t have wind. I’d paced the house, jiggling her with increasing frustration. Jim had gone to bed, marching wearily up the stairs and falling into bed so heavily the mattress had squealed. Violet eventually relented and I grabbed a few hours of fitful rest, her cries echoing round my skull long after she’d stopped. The next day I shuffled around like a zombie while Jim went off to work as usual, the lunch I’d made him tucked under his arm.
I’d laid down on the sofa, daytime TV chatting to us both. The cushion under my head, the warm sun through the window. My little baby with her baggy tights and pretty little dress had been contently kicking her squishy legs next to me, her plump pink hand wrapped around my finger.
My eyes were open. The next second, they were springing back open. I’d been woken up by the cry as she hit the floor.
“But she shouldn’t have been able to roll over yet,” I’d spluttered in disbelief to Jim as he rushed in through the door after my hyperventilating phone call.
“That’s not the point,” he’d said, and I’d shrunk. “My poor little girl!”
“I wasn’t blaming her,” I’d said to his back as he whisked her off, gently cooing her cries away. He didn’t answer me.
Later that night, Jim nudged me awake in the flickering light of the TV set. Violet lay asleep on his chest, mouth open, eyes scrunched shut. She’d been glued to him ever since he’d rushed back.
“We should have gone to the hospital to have her checked,” he’d said. Before I could answer, he’d asked, “Do you fall asleep a lot when you’re looking after her?”