We couldn’t get it.
The only thing we did get that was positive, thank God, was a little ambition. Our nan drummed it into us. ‘Don’t rely on a man.’ Well there were none around to rely on anyway.
And we knew we wanted to get the hell out of Dodge.
And look at how that turned out for both of us in the end.
* * *
To return to the present, Jeanie did sound like shit on the phone that evening, after the whole Luke-in-hospital incident.
Sorry if that offends your sensibilities, but it’s not what you expect when your big sister’s apparently married the man of her dreams.
Except – as more than one bloody shrink’s told me – I have zero expectations of love for myself, so why would I have more for Jeanie?
Not that she doesn’t deserve love. Christ, if anyone does, if anyone deserves being adored, it’s Jeanie. But as usual she put herself last and everyone else first.
That’s just how she is… and now look what’s bloody happened.
Twenty-Five
Jeanie
23 February 2015
9 a.m.
* * *
I didn’t sleep well at all last night.
After I saw the birds, I pulled down all the blinds and tried both Matthew – whose phone went to voicemail – and then Frankie. He was still only near Birmingham, he said, waiting for a connection at the bus depot.
‘Call the police if you’re worried?’ he said, but I decided that would be ridiculous, so I went to bed instead.
My dreams were filled with skeletons and bird beaks and tiny beady eyes, and at some point Matthew crept into bed, terrifying me even more when I opened my eyes and found him beside me.
I curled into him desperately. At least I wasn’t alone in the house any more, though my dreams were still chequered.
In the sleety morning, all snow gone, I told him about the dead birds, but by the time he went to look, they’d gone.
‘The foxes must have taken them,’ I said, confused. But where were the cloches? ‘They were definitely right there last night – like they’d been laid out. A baby and a mother.’
‘There’s hardly any foxes here at this time of year.’
That was rubbish, and we both knew it.
‘I heard them, Matthew. Last night, I heard them. The foxes.’
‘Well it’s still not the right time of year for chicks. You must have imagined it,’ he said. ‘Probably tired – and maybe a bit drunk?’
‘I didn’t even have a drink last night,’ I protested, and he looked at me oddly.
‘Really?’ He pointed at the recycling bin. A bottle of Sauvignon Blanc stuck out – my favourite – and an empty half-measure of Southern Comfort.
‘Not mine,’ I insisted. ‘Honestly, I swear, Matt.’
‘If you say so,’ he said, with a half sigh.
It was obvious he didn’t believe me.
When he left for work, I rang Marlena again. Frankie had a shift at the bistro, and I needed to see someone who actually knew me well.
‘I’d – I’d really like to see you,’ I said to my sister’s voicemail. ‘I should have said last night – I miss you.’
Need would have been a better verb.
Was I losing my marbles again?
* * *
11 a.m.
* * *
Marlena calls back to say she’s on her way to Luton for a ‘recce’ and she could meet somewhere nearby for coffee.
We meet at a service station not far away, on the M25. She’s in the coffee shop, scribbling on a notepad, transcribing something from her phone.
We don’t kiss each other; we never do.
‘Hey,’ she says, not looking up properly. ‘Won’t be a sec. Grab me another black coffee would you? And a chocolate muffin. I haven’t got long.’
I do as I’m told. It’s easier, generally, I’ve found with her.
Sitting opposite Marlena, I wait for her to finish writing. She looks good; she always does. Her glossy black curls are bundled messily on top of her head; she wears a big fake fur, a leather mini skirt and high-tops that she manages to pull off, despite being thirty-six.
She finishes whatever it is she’s been scrawling. ‘So what’s up?’ My sister looks at me and grins.
‘Nothing really.’ I toy with my cappuccino froth.
‘That’s quite blatantly a lie.’ Her nicotine-stained fingers are itching to light a fag. ‘You look tired.’
‘How’s the no smoking going?’
She scowls at me like she did when I told her to brush her teeth aged five. ‘It’s not, as I’m sure you well know. Don’t rub it in!’
‘Sorry.’ I try to stifle a yawn. She looks at me again, enquiry in her dark eyes, and I shrug. ‘I’m not sleeping well.’
‘I thought you were over all that?’
Twenty-Six
Marlena