“Why don’t you take all this for your Sharon and the kids?” Mother would say to Mrs. Morrison in a soft, patronizing tone.
This was Mother having a dig. Mrs. Morrison’s daughter was a single mum with two kids both to unknown dads. Mother was letting her know that despite being allowed to sit on a folding chair and drink tea from a gold-edged cup with a picture of a quail on it, she was beneath them. Mrs. Morrison would pucker her mouth defensively and shake her head as though she would rather let the kids starve than eat leftovers.
THE TREE
Simon, you’re just a young man. Why do you waste all your free time with me? You should be going out to pubs and discos with people your own age.”
“But I love spending time here, Aunt Marion,” said Simon, resting his head on her lap as they sat next to each other on the big white leather sofa. “I feel so happy just being with you.”
Running her hands through his thick blond hair, she felt a warm glow of happiness.
“I’m the luckiest woman in the world to have you as a nephew, Simon.”
“And I’m so lucky to have you as an aunt. Since my parents were killed in the car crash, you were the only one I could turn to.”
? ? ?
MARION WAS PRESSING John’s shirts in the face-wardrobe room while daydreaming about Simon, the young man from the estate agency. In the fantasy she lived in her aunt’s old flat on Ocean Vista Court and Simon had called round to visit. They ordered Chinese takeaway and ate it while watching television together.
“An accident waiting to happen—” Suddenly her dream was shattered by a sharp female voice coming from the garden at the rear of the house. Marion, still dressed in her nightgown and holding the hot iron, went over to the window. Judith, in a green waxed jacket, was standing by the sycamore tree talking to someone. A burst of steam from the iron scorched Marion’s cheek. Judith must have jumped over the wall from her own garden. If John saw her, he would have a fit. She would have to be got rid of immediately.
“It would only take a good gust of wind to bring that branch down. It could fall on anyone,” she heard Judith say. After quickly pulling on a pair of trousers and tucking her nightgown into the waistband like a blouse, Marion rushed downstairs.
Opening the back kitchen door, Marion came face-to-face with Greg, Judith’s lover. He was a full head taller than Judith and wore a lumberjack shirt and bobble hat. His beard was a muddy-brown color, and he had a silver ring through his nose and some other bits of metal in his eyebrows. In his eyes was the look of a boy who had been caught stealing.
“Marion,” said Judith, who was standing behind him wearing skinny jeans and Wellingtons with little skulls on them. “I didn’t know you were home. I was just showing Greg the tree.”
“Judith, you can’t be here right now. This isn’t a good time. I’m busy,” said Marion, trying to sound stern.
“Doing what?” Judith snorted, amused by the idea that Marion could ever be busy. “I’m sorry, but this is important. You don’t seem to understand that tree is dangerous.”
She held out a leaf that was speckled with ugly red marks. Marion felt the tree had let her down somehow, pretending to be healthy, only to make her look a fool in front of Judith. Then, noticing a knotty, tumorlike lump beneath one of the branches, she felt a stab of guilt. Judith turned to Greg, demanding support.
“You can see what I’m talking about, can’t you?”
“Well, yes—I mean—” From his appearance, you would have expected Greg to speak in a booming, manly voice, but instead he sounded whiny and girlish. “He is quite an old chap—looks a bit unwell, I suppose. . . .” He trailed off, then went over to the tree and began picking off little bits of bark as though they were scabs from a wound.
I don’t care if the tree is sick, I won’t let her bully me, Marion said to herself. She can’t just walk in someone’s garden and start bossing them around like this.
“Even a fool could tell the thing is rotten through and through.” Judith kicked the trunk. “Did you mention getting it removed to John yet? It’s been months since you said you would.”
“No, John is very busy, I didn’t want to bother him. You know, I really think you both should go now. I promise I will ask him, though.”
Then Marion heard something. It was coming from the grate in the back wall that let air into the cellar. Very faint, echoing sobs. A chill came over her. This is it, she told herself. They are going to find out what is down there. This is how it will end.
Judith and Greg were both staring at her. Surely they could hear the sound too? They are going to call 999 on their mobile phones. Within minutes the police will arrive and break down the cellar door. Marion realized she almost wanted them to hear the noise; wouldn’t it be a relief to end all that dreadful secrecy?
“Why don’t you just go and get your brother now, Marion, then we can sort out this matter once and for all. Go and get John,” ordered Judith.
“I can’t,” she said weakly, and then moved so she was standing in front of the grate, as if this might block the noise.
“But why not? Isn’t he home? When do you think he will be back? We might as well come in and wait.” She began to walk towards the house and seemed ready to barge in through the kitchen door.
The sobbing got much louder, almost like screeching, the sound of someone terrified to the point of hysteria. Marion felt as though she were standing on the deck of a boat rocked by surging waves. The smell of bleach and drains filled her nose. She remembered feeling the same way that awful day in the wax museum with John. Suddenly everything before her eyes went silvery white, and the boat capsized.
When her vision cleared, she found herself lying on the sofa in the living room, Judith and Greg looking down at her. They made her stay there for several minutes with her feet higher than her head. Greg, who appeared to know about first aid, said she needed to do this to get the blood supply back to her brain cells.
“Please don’t tell John,” she kept repeating. “He will be so angry with me.”
Judith was holding on to Greg’s arm, as though afraid all the tangled wires, crumpled newspapers, and various broken odds and ends that cluttered the room might suddenly swarm and attack her. Judith couldn’t have been in the house since Lydia was a child, and things had gotten much worse since then. They must think we are animals to live like this, thought Marion. It seemed pointless to even try and explain or apologize. Though Marion felt embarrassed at Judith seeing the inside of the house, she decided she didn’t care a fig what Greg, with his pierced face and girl’s voice, thought about it.
“I’ll be quite all right,” she insisted. “You should go. Please.”
“Marion, you need to go and see a doctor—you might be having a brain hemorrhage or God knows what,” said Judith.