From Robin’s bedroom window on the second floor, she can see into nine separate flats behind her house. If she moves down a floor and balances herself on the windowsill in her spare-bedroom-slash-gym, she can see another three flats on either side. Each of the apartments that face her back wall has three windows facing out, filled with lives she doesn’t know. Zoetropes stacked on top of one another, showcasing the effortless movement of people as they drift and glide in and out of the windows.
It’s mid-morning now, so most of the windows are empty, on hold until the evening. In a top-floor flat, a cleaner pushes a mop around briskly. Her bright top swings around her large body like a circus tent. Her shoulders shake; she’s either listening to music or remembering it. In the bottom right-hand flat, the old lady is doing her usual chores. Bright yellow Marigold gloves on, navy tabard protecting her no-nonsense nylon clothes.
In the apartment at the dead center of the building, a man and woman are both home. Mr. Magpie. Robin’s special one.
Mr. Magpie wasn’t his real name, of course. He was Henry Watkins and his wife was Karen Watkins. But before Robin knew this, Mr. Magpie—named so for the prominent gray streak that swept down the side of his otherwise black hair—had already formed an important part of Robin’s day.
Every morning, Robin watches, breath held, until Mr. Magpie and the little boy (whose name wasn’t available online, so she calls him Little Chick) come out of the flats’ communal garden, shaking the night rain off the boy’s scooter and working their wiggly route down the cobbled alleyway that separates the two rows of yards and gardens.
Saying “Good morning, Mr. Magpie” is a fundamental part of Robin’s day. Once that was out, the day could begin. Until that point, there could be no tea, no toast, no steps, no weights, no comforting kids’ TV, no nothing.
There are other essentials too, of course, that slot together to make Robin’s days. The sorting and careful disregarding of the post. The hiding. And the watching. Always the watching. When I don’t pay attention, Robin thinks, people die. Unlike most of her “what if” thoughts, this one carries a certain truth.
—
Robin hadn’t intended to see anything untoward in the Magpie house over the last few weeks. She was only watching to keep them safe. Robin hadn’t wanted to meddle. The Magpie family had represented all that was good in the world. Love, caring, normalcy. That was what Little Chick and Mr. Magpie deserved. Magpies mate for life. They’re supposed to mate for life.
So when Robin saw Mrs. Magpie and her friend walking along the alleyway, talking animatedly, hugging, kissing and then more, she couldn’t look away. An impotent anger rooted her to the spot, behind her curtains.
She watches now. The oblivious husband and a ticking time bomb of a wife, picking fights and pointing her finger.
Downstairs, the post has fluttered to the mat and the letter box has snapped shut again. Robin is about to go down and collect it up, organize it—unopened—into the neat piles she’s been building. But just as she steps out onto the thickly carpeted landing, the knocks come. Robin waits. It could be a charity worker with a clipboard, a politician or a cold caller selling thin plastic window frames. Or it could be someone else. The only way to know—short of flinging open the door and allowing all that outside to rush in—is to wait.
Knock knock. Still they land politely, but they don’t stop.
Knock knock knock. More urgent now.
Knock knock knock knock knock. Rapid, sweating effort. Now Robin knows it’s “someone else.” The eager caller, the angry caller, the nameless, faceless man at her door. She stays on the landing and counts the time it takes for him to give up. Thirty-seven seconds. His determination sets her teeth on edge.
SARAH|PRESENT DAY
2. Lies
I understand why this was on the list. I did tell Jim a lot of lies. From the outset, I omitted. Then omitting turned to spinning, which turned to outright fabrication.
Jim and I met at work, not long after I moved to Godalming in Surrey. My first job in a long time, flushed with drive.
When Jim asked me about brothers and sisters, I said I didn’t have any. And my parents were dead. That first lie felt like the right decision for a very long time: I don’t have a family.
He talked about his family and his gentle hopes and I knew he was the right man. I moved in. And oh my God, I could breathe. I could smile. It was normal and wholesome and good and I’d managed it.
The lies flowed and then hardened. So many questions came that I hadn’t reckoned on. There were gaps to be filled, and they had to be filled on the hoof. Once you tell one lie, you’ve chosen your path and there’s no going back.
I chose Jim. And I chose to be nice, normal Sarah, living in Godalming. And most important, I chose Violet.
Jim and I had to learn how to be together, in our shared home. There were some awkward spots while we adjusted but our girl transcended those. She’d been born early, needed extra care. I loved her instantly.
While the house slept, I gazed at the little rag doll baby with the skinniest legs I’d ever seen. My baby. I whispered it over and over like a mantra. “My baby, my baby, my baby.”
My first night with her felt like a gigantic prank. This incredibly small, painfully delicate creature was being left with me. No instructions, no one from the hospital coming to inspect the house, no one watching my every move.
I watched Violet’s tiny veins pulsing with her heartbeat. A miniature light blinking on and off. The held breath between pulses became more normal and less frightening until I relaxed and started to believe we were all safe.
I couldn’t always stop her crying at first. And in the early months, I often cried with desperation in the small hours when there was no point waking Jim, because what could he do besides watch me being tired?
But we got there, I got there.
And it wasn’t bad. It wasn’t just this desperately tough time of night tears and warm milk. It was often a feat of endurance but all underpinned by a tidal wave of love.
When he said number two on the list, “the lies,” I didn’t know what Jim meant. He said it quietly, like it was a curse word.
I’d raised my eyes to his. “Lies?” I’d said. “What lies?”
I should have said, “Which lies?” because there were so many. They’d spilled out of me like blood.
FOUR
ROBIN|1990