Hold My Hand (15 page)

Chapter twenty-three

Eighteen beds. Suddenly, the industrial washing machine doesn't seem large enough. It takes an hour and a half simply to strip them and get the linen down to the scullery, another three to make them back up again. And maybe I'll get better at it, or maybe I'll just get used to it. But I can't get much faster. These things – getting up and down the stairs without tripping over mountains of trailing fabric, turning duvet cover after duvet cover inside-out, making hospital corners because he hasn't had the sense to buy fitted bottom sheets – take a certain amount of physical time and I don't see how I'll ever shave that much off.

It's going to be a full day's ironing. People who stay in places like this expect Egyptian cotton. I'll do it up in the flat, where it's warm. Turn the radio on and set Yasmin up with the telly. Damn it. I didn't bring her down to the country to spend her days monging in front of the electronic babysitter.

She is bathed in sweat. The Aykroyds didn't all clear out until gone midday, and she felt inhibited about being too overt about getting started before they did. But they turned out to be nice people. There was almost two hundred pounds in tips scattered on the adults' bedside tables. She hadn't thought about the possibility of tips. Now she can get Yasmin a pair of decent wellies and herself a proper coat to see her through the winter.

She looks at her watch as she tidies the Hoover away. Five-thirty. It's been dark outside for long enough that she'd lost track. There's still the kitchen to get shipshape. The cooker-top alone will take several aeons. Do they leave their kitchens like this at home? Probably not. At home they've not paid two thousand pounds to have it all done for them.

She unloads a batch of sheets from the washing machine, dumps them in the dryer, starts another wash cycle and hastens through to cover it in Fairy Power Spray. Turns the oven on to give its self-clean lining a blast of heat. Goes back and pops her head into the flat staircase.

“You all right up there, Yas?”

Her daughter seems to be talking to someone. She has a whole stableful of My Little Ponies now, and spends a lot of time brushing their manes and telling them to stand in corners. There's a pause, then she calls back: “Yes. When's tea?”

“In a bit. Get yourself a biscuit if you're hungry.”

“Okay,” calls Yasmin. “We'll have a tea-party.”

“All right,” she calls. “Use the plastic mugs, not the china ones, okay?”

“D'oh.” Yasmin voices the universal expression of stupidity. Adolescence starts earlier and earlier these days. “Of
course
.”

The dishwasher lets off an explosion of greasy steam as she opens it. I must start a list, she thinks, of things to buy in Wadebridge. Dishwasher cleaner. Cillit Bang. A gross of kitchen towels. One of those five-kilo packs of washing powder. Furniture polish. Window wipes. It's amazing how much glass can get smeared by a houseful of children. Oh, damn, I forgot to replace the bog paper in the bathrooms. I'll have to do it once I'm done in here. I just hope he'll stump up for whatever I buy. To be honest I don't care about some of it. If it saves me five minutes, it'll be worth the tip money.

She leaves it to air, goes back to scrub at the cooker. There's melted cheese on here, and loads of blackened crumbs. And something viscous that someone's been scraping at with a knife. She finds a scouring pad under the sink and lays into it. No time for the gentle way. Anyway, it's stainless steel. It should be tough enough to take it.

Fire. I need to get a fire laid and lit in the drawing room. He's really keen on that. Says it makes the place welcoming. And there's a vase of flowers on the dining-room table that's gone brackish. Oh, God.

She grabs a cloth, rinses it under the tap, wipes the cooker surface off. It'll have to do. It should look like a restaurant cooker, but I don't have time, I'll give it another polish once they're here. Hopefully they'll be too busy checking out the bedrooms to notice. I can unload the dishwasher at the same time.

She dumps the flowers in the scullery, on the top. The room is filling with thick damp warmth from the dryer; smells pleasantly of fabric conditioner and cleanness, the windows fogged against the cold night.

Bin. I need to empty the bin. And check the fridge. You never know, there might be something in there we could have for our tea, because otherwise it's beans on toast again and she's going to start grumbling. Fish fingers? Maybe fish finger sandwiches. And sweetcorn on the side. I'm sure there's a tin…

The bin is almost at repletion. Takes a couple of goes, clamped between her knees, before the vacuum breaks and the liner comes loose. There's been a leak. Something brown. I don't have time. A spray of flash and a wipe-round with a kitchen towel, and I'll get it out to the scullery and deal with it later.

She's on her knees, cleaning up the remains of the leak from the floor – thank god for kitchen towels – when headlights play across the ceiling. My God, it can't be six o'clock. What happened to the day?

She leaps to her feet, runs her hands under the tap, flicks her hair down from the greasy ponytail it's been up in and goes to the front door.

He's tall. Has hair that has balded in a V back over the temples, which he's shaved in an attempt to cover it. He's wearing a black polo-neck sweater and overtight jeans: a middle-aged man dressing trendy to match the trophy wife who totters up the pathway behind him in her furs, stilettos hazardous on the flagstone path.

“Good evening,” she says, “Mr Terry?”

“Yes,” he says.

“Bridget Sweeny. I'm the housekeeper.”

“Right,” he says.

“Find it all right?”

“Of course, with satnav,” he says. Walks past her into the hall without really bothering to look at her face. Stands in the drawing room door and looks around. “Well, this is okay,” he says.

“It's not a hundred per cent done yet,” she says. “I'm afraid the previous party were a bit late getting off.”

She sees a little flicker of the jaw. “Not my problem,” he says. “It was supposed to be ready.”

Not my place to argue, she thinks. “No, I'm sorry. I've just got the fire to lay and the towels to put out....”

“Well, I want a bath right now,” says the trophy wife. Now she's in the light, Bridget sees that she's not as young as she looked coming up the path. She's got the lines of someone who's kept themselves unnaturally thin throughout their life.

“There's plenty of hot water,” says Bridget. “I'll just go and…”

“No,” he says. Holds a bunch of keys out to her, sideways. “We'll have our luggage first. There's quite a lot, I'm afraid. New Year and all that.”

Bridget looks at the keys.

He wants me to go and get it for him, she thinks. Feels herself get a little red about the face.

“Um…” how do I handle this? I don't want to come across as unwilling, but… “perhaps you'd like me to show you around?”

“No, you can just get the luggage and do that in a minute.”

What do I say?

“Yes, we don't actually have a… um… porter…”

Michael Terry sighs, finally turns to face her. “Just do your job, will you?”

Bridget fights the urge to sock him one. Rude fucker. Presumptuous dickhead. Who the hell do you think you are?

“Yes,” she says, “I am.”

There's a short silence. “I've been on the road for six hours,” he says.

And I've been working my arse off for eight.

She looks at him. The wife totters away and slumps on a sofa, unzips her boots.

“It's just a few cases.”

“I'm sorry, but I've still got the house to finish up. I'll be out of your way as quickly as possible.”

He throws the keys down on the hall table, petulantly.

“Great,” he says. Turns away from her. “Great start to my holiday.”

“Any chance of a cup of tea, at least?” calls the wife. “Or is that too much for you as well?”

C
hapter Twenty-three

“Hello?” she shouts.

“Happy New Year! Jesus! What's that noise?”

“Jesus is about right. They're having a party. The tenants.”

“Are they allowed?”

“God knows. By the time I realised what they were up to it was a bit late to do anything about it.”

Monsters. They are monsters. They couldn't be more monstrous if there were horns sprouting from their heads.

“Where's Yas?”

“In my bed,” bellows Bridget. “But she's not asleep, funnily enough.”

And their music. Most of these people – most of the men, anyway – are in their forties. What are they doing, playing bone-shaking doom-bada-doom-bada-doom-bada-doom club anthems when they should have graduated to something with a tune by now?

“Jesus,” says Bridget. “It's worse than those bastards downstairs.”

“For all you know it
is
those bastards downstairs. They're certainly not in tonight. And it's not like we ever
saw
them, was it?”

Outside, below the living room window, someone is throwing up, copiously and without inhibition. Lovely. I just
know
it's going to be me out there with the hose getting that off the wall in the morning. Oh, you bastards. You utter, utter bastards. It's been hard enough steering Yasmin's attention away from your car-key parties and the fact that half your blonde popsies aren't wearing pants under their miniskirts without having to explain why you can't vomit in lavatories like normal people.

“So… if she's still awake, can I say happy new year to her as well?”

“Of course,” says Bridget. “Hang on.”

She walks up the corridor, pushes open the bedroom door. Yasmin is kneeling up, looking out of the window. Her eyes are wide with fascination and fatigue. I'm going to have a
great
day with her tomorrow. Just great. Tantrums
and
buckets of bleach. Happy New Year, John Terry, you pompous puffed-up wanker.

She holds out the handset. “Auntie Carol.”

Yasmin scoots across the bed, presses the phone to her ear. “Auntie Carol!” she says. “There's two people playing the Beast with Two Backs in the alleyway.”

Beast With Two Backs? Where does she get these things from? And how does she know what it is? Good God. I got her out of London just in time.

Yasmin settles back, pulls the bedclothes around her. “Yes,” she says. “Thank you.”

Bridget goes through to make a cup of tea. Might as well. It's not like the caffeine's going to make much difference to her sleep tonight. The kitchen is literally shaking. They've turned the bass up on those damn speakers so high that the ceiling light dances above her head. Old School bollocks. Stuff she -hasn't heard in years. Stuff she’s sort-of-hoped she'd never hear again. A woman's voice, shrieking, barely in tune:
RAYd on tahm, ruh-ruh-ruh RAYd on tahm…

She looks at the clock on the cooker. Nearly midnight. Will they stop, at least, for the bells?

God, let's hope not. With these people, the New Year kisses will probably turn into some revolting full-on orgy. I had to clear a condom out of the library wastebasket yesterday. Disgusting. Animals. Get a bit of money, and they turn into monsters.

Maybe I should try some of that valerian stuff. Maybe it'll even override this. No. It won't. I'm in hell. They're going to go on all night. Jesus God. They could have warned me. Let me get my daughter off the premises. But they wouldn't, would they? If they'd given me some warning I might have got Tom Gordhavo to put a stop to it.

The sound of breaking glass.

Well, they're certainly losing their deposit.

She goes back to the bedroom.

“Okay,” says Yasmin. “I will. Night night, Auntie Carol. Sleep tight. Happy New Year.”

Bridget takes the phone back.

“Well, she certainly sounds like she's enjoying herself,” says Carol.

“I wish the same could be said of her mother. Can you imagine what sort of a day I'm going to have tomorrow?”

Carol laughs. “Happy New Year,” she says.

“So what have you got up to?”

“Nothing, actually,” says Carol. “I'm sitting here with a bottle of Muscadet burning candles and casting spells. Trying to attract a bit of luck.”

“We could do with some of that, if you’re sending it over.”

“That's what I thought.”

“So what are you wishing for?”

“A job,” she says decisively. “I'm going to get a job this year if it kills me. Anyway. I've got the candles still lit. Anything you want me to wish for for you?”

“Yes.”

She ducks, instinctively, as something else smashes on the garden path.

“Yes,” she says. “Put a bloody curse on these people.”

“No sooner said than done,” says Carol. “Happy New Year, Honey. Have a good one.”

“You too. Thanks for calling.”

Carol goes. Bridget gets into bed with her daughter and her tea. Cuddles up and strokes fuzzy hair.

“People,” says Yasmin, “are weird.”

“Sure are, baby,” she says.

“Why would you want to make that amount of noise, anyway?”

“You know what I think? It's to drown out what they're saying. Because if anyone could hear what they were saying they'd realise they were completely
schtoopid
.”

Yasmin giggles. You won't be giggling soon, thinks Bridget. I can see it in your eyes. Give it an hour, less, and you're going to be climbing the walls. You're going to be crying your poor little eyes out ’cause they won't let you go to sleep.

A brief pause, then the music starts again. Bloody Keith bloody Flint. I'll give him Twisted bloody Firestarter.

Someone pumps up the volume.

The lights go out.