The Secrets We Left Behind (9 page)

‘I expect we’ll see some real choirs, too,’ her mum said as they hurried to the station hand-in-hand. ‘Real choirs singing proper carols that we can join in with. And if
you’re really good’– she looked down at Jo – ‘we’ll go and see Father Christmas in Selfridges tomorrow.’ She smiled. ‘How would you like
that?’

Too overwhelmed to speak, Jo nodded eagerly and skipped the rest of the way to the station. On the train, they played I-spy for a while, then they ate their liver sausage sandwiches and
butterfly cakes, and then Jo settled down to read her book. Before long, her eyes grew heavy, so she laid her head down on her mum’s lap and went to sleep. She was still sleepy when they
arrived, so they took a taxi to the bedsit. It was five o’clock and her dad should have only just got back from work, but he answered the door wearing a woman’s dressing gown, a
glamorous, silky affair in pink and dove grey. Jo had never been so embarrassed in her life. All she could think about were his hairy legs poking out under the grey silk. The dressing gown, it
turned out, belonged to Elena, his beautiful Spanish secretary, who was waiting for him in the bed at the other end of the room.

Jo’s mum stood in the doorway, not saying anything at first. Jo held on to her hand but it felt weird, like she wanted to let go but didn’t know if she was allowed to. She remembered
her dad looking uncomfortable and running his hand through his hair, but she couldn’t remember what he said, only her mum’s response, and she remembered that clearly, word for word. Her
mum had flipped, yanking her hand away from Jo’s and hitting her dad in the chest. ‘Have a drink?’ she screamed. ‘Have a drink? Would that just be you and me or is your
whore going to drag herself out of your bed and join us? Dear God above, I don’t know which is worse, the betrayal or the . . . the
fucking
cliché.’ Jo had gasped.
She’d never heard either of her parents swear, but somehow she knew that her mother had just said a really bad word. She couldn’t remember exactly what happened for the rest of that
day, but they never got to go Christmas shopping in Oxford Street, and she never saw Father Christmas in Selfridges.

And now here she was over seven years later, the train pulling into Paddington station once more. It was gone six thirty now and already dark outside. She yawned as she stood up. Her legs felt
stiff and her neck ached, and when she pulled her duffle bag down from the luggage shelf, it still felt heavy, even though she’d eaten the sandwiches and the Wagon Wheel and drunk both cans
of Coke. Her suitcase was fairly heavy as well, so she hoped she wouldn’t have to carry them far. Outside the station, it was chucking it down, but she needed to find a cheap room so she
headed straight out into the wet evening. With the five pounds Mr Rundle had given her and the twenty-two pounds from her Post Office account, she had enough to last for a few nights, at least, and
after that, well, by that time she’d have found a job.

The shops were closed now, but there were still loads of people around, all with their heads down, walking quickly in different directions, determined to get where they were going and not
looking at anyone else. It was just like her first day at Harfield Grammar, when all the other girls appeared to know where they were supposed to be and how to get there, and none of them seemed to
notice her as they passed by; she’d felt like an intruder, a gatecrasher who nobody wanted to talk to. She felt a bit like that now, an outsider who really shouldn’t be here. She was
surprised at how different everything was; not only did it look different, it smelled and sounded different. She hadn’t realised before now just how much she’d taken for granted the
smell of the sea and the sound of the seagulls screeching overhead.

She wandered around the streets near the station, not knowing where she was going and increasingly conscious of the weight of her suitcase and duffle bag, but there was nothing but
expensive-looking hotels. In Newquay, there were lodging houses or bed and breakfasts on almost every street. The rain was getting heavier and she was soaked through, as well as exhausted from so
much walking. She was almost in tears. It was getting late, and people were beginning to settle down in shop doorways. The thought of sleeping on the streets was scary. She looked up at the grubby
front of another hotel, which didn’t look quite as grand as some of the others; she went in.

The receptionist looked bored as he ran through the prices. The cheapest room was £7.50 a night – twice what she’d expected to pay, and that didn’t even include
breakfast. But she was wet and cold and tired. ‘Okay,’ she said, aware of how weary her voice sounded. The receptionist handed her the key and then came round from behind the desk to
take her bags. ‘No, it’s all right,’ she said. ‘I can manage, thank you.’ She’d never stayed in a proper hotel before, and all she knew about how to behave was
from what she’d seen on television. In
Crossroads,
when David Hunter carried someone’s bags, they gave him a tip, and she didn’t want to risk having to do that. The
receptionist looked at her oddly, shrugged, and went back behind his desk. ‘Suit yourself. Third floor, fifth room on your right along the hallway at the top of the stairs.’

When she’d finally managed to haul herself and her bag up six flights of narrow, creaking stairs, she used the communal bathroom before letting herself into her room. It was expensive, and
it wasn’t very nice, but she’d done it, she’d found a place to stay and she’d paid for it. She had a fleeting thought about telling her mum, showing her how very grown-up
she really was. This kept happening – she’d imagine running home to tell her mum something, and then she’d remember. She sighed as she hung her dripping-wet parka over the back of
the chair, climbed into bed fully clothed and fell into an exhausted sleep.

The following morning, she ate the remaining food in her duffle bag – a sausage roll and a couple of squares of Fruit and Nut – drank a few mouthfuls of water from
the tap in the bathroom and set off in her still-damp parka to find a cheaper place to stay. The weather continued to be cold and drizzly, but it wasn’t raining heavily now, and she felt a
lot better after a night’s sleep. Things seemed so much more possible in daylight, even if that daylight was still slightly grey, and as she was looking for somewhere to buy a newspaper, she
spotted a sign on a building across the road,
Hostel: women only.
How the hell had she missed this last night? She crossed the road and rang the bell.

It only cost £1.20 a night. There were eight beds to each dormitory, but it was clean and fairly quiet and you could get a cooked breakfast for 15p and a dinner in the evening for 35p. All
you had to do was take your turn in the kitchen for two hours every day helping the cooks or doing the washing up.

The hostel manager showed her to her dormitory, which was on the first floor. The walls were painted a dark greenish-blue, which made the room a bit gloomy, but on the other hand, the colour
reminded her a little of the sea. Some of the pictures on the walls reminded her of home, too, especially the one of two children playing on a sandy beach, the sea twinkling in the sunshine behind
them. ‘There are only three other girls in the dormitory at the moment,’ the manager explained, ‘but we could fill up at any time. Barbara’ – she addressed a thin,
dark-haired girl with a sullen expression who was sitting on her bed, varnishing her nails – ‘this is Jo; she’ll be staying with us for a few days.’ Barbara nodded to Jo but
didn’t smile or say hello. Then the manager introduced Karen, who had masses of wild, frizzy red hair and looked as if she was in her thirties, so not really a girl at all, and Hilary, who
was probably about the same age as Jo, but was quite overweight and had clearly been crying. After saying hello, Hilary climbed back into her bed, turned to face the wall and pulled the covers over
her head. Karen charted to Jo while she unpacked her rucksack. As she’d guessed, Karen was in her thirties – thirty-three, in fact; it was one of the first things she told Jo before
asking how old she was, whether she had any brothers and sisters, what her favourite TV show was and a lot of other things as well. She talked quickly and flitted from subject to subject like a
small child; she even had a slightly childlike voice. Jo smiled and nodded but eventually Karen lost interest and wandered back to her own bed.

Jo’s first shift in the kitchen was that afternoon, helping to prepare the evening meal. She had to lay out sausages ready for the oven and prick their skins three times with a fork; then
she had to grate an enormous block of cheese, after that she was on potato-peeling with two other girls. She enjoyed working in the kitchen. Some of the girls had been there for quite a while, but
she would only be staying a night or two, she told them – it was only until she found a job. She was looking for something clerical to start with, but she could always fall back on bar work
if she had to.

After she’d been at the hostel for four days, she began to lower her sights. Anything would do for now – bar work, waitressing, cleaning; anything so that she could get a proper
room, then she’d think about what she was going to do long-term. ‘I might train to be a nanny one day,’ she told Tina, who’d just arrived and had been given the next bed. Jo
had her feet up on her own bed and was flicking through the job ads in the paper. ‘I love kids. I want to have my own as soon as I get married, but until then, I’d like to work with
them, if I can.’

‘They took my kids off me,’ Tina said, pushing her greasy blonde hair behind her ear. ‘Bastards. Here’ – she pointed at Jo’s pack of No 6 which was open on
the bed – ‘let’s have one of them fags.’

Jo picked up the pack and did a quick count. There were nine left; she supposed she could spare one. ‘There you go.’ She tossed a cigarette to Tina, then leaned over to pass her the
lighter. ‘How many kids have you got?’

‘Three.’ Tina threw the lighter back. ‘Louise is five, Darren’s three and Dean’s one. But I ain’t seen them since before Christmas. Fucking social workers
won’t let me.’

Jo didn’t say anything. Had Tina hit her children? Starved them? She didn’t like to ask.

‘Go on, then.’ Tina lifted her chin in defiance and narrowed her eyes as she blew out a column of pale grey smoke. ‘Ask me why they took them off me.’

Jo shook her head. ‘No, it’s all right, you don’t have to—’

‘Wacky baccy.’ She mimed rolling a spliff. ‘Bit of acid. Nothing too heavy. Not like I was doing H or nothing. But they said I weren’t fit to look after me own kids, then
they kicked me out of me flat, so now I ain’t got nowhere for them to sleep anyhow.’ She took another big drag of the cigarette, then leaned forward and whispered, ‘You got
anything on you? Some grass? Little bit of hash?’

‘No, I haven’t. I smoked the last of mine before I came to London. Can’t afford to buy any more.’

‘Come on,’ Tina said, she was smiling, but it wasn’t a friendly smile. ‘Posh bird like you must be able to afford a bit of smoke?’

‘Posh?’ Jo laughed. ‘I’m not posh. And I’ve hardly got any money left, which is why I’m looking for a job – and why I’m staying in this
place.’

‘Yeah, right.’ Tina rolled her eyes. ‘Me heart bleeds for you.’

Jo swung her legs down onto the floor, picked up her duffle bag and her cigarettes, and told Tina she’d see her later. Tina had been nice at first, but now it looked like she wanted an
argument and Jo just didn’t have the energy.

By the evening, Tina wanted to be friends again. Although it was only ten past nine, Hilary had already turned in for the night and Karen was busy trying to read her creased copy of
Jackie,
her lips moving steadily and her finger sliding back and forth along the pages as she followed the words. ‘Psst! Jo!’ Tina whispered. ‘Want some of this?’ She
nodded towards her open rucksack, which was on the floor between the two beds. Jo looked down and could see that inside the rucksack was a carrier bag containing two bottles. ‘It’s
cider,’ Tina said. ‘Have some – it’ll make up for all the fags I’ve been poncing off you. Careful.’ Jo looked over her shoulder. You were allowed cigarettes in
here, but if they found alcohol, you could get thrown out.

‘It’s all right. Those two won’t say nothing. Fuck me, you’ve got to do something in this place to cheer yourself up.’

Jo glanced round the room again. Hilary was asleep, and Karen was far too absorbed in her magazine to notice what anyone else was doing. ‘Go on, then. Thanks.’ She took the bottle
from Tina and took a surreptitious swig. ‘Bloody hell, that’s strong!’

Tina smiled. ‘Too right, it is.’

*

When Jo woke the next day, she couldn’t remember much about the previous evening, only that Tina had kept passing her the bottle until she’d been unable to talk
without giggling. By the time she realised that Tina herself was barely drinking, it was too late: the room was spinning and she didn’t feel giggly any more, she felt ill. She had a vague
recollection of Tina’s face very close to her own at some point in the night, and she also thought she saw Tina get up to go to the loo.

As soon as she opened her eyes, she was aware of feeling extremely sick and desperately thirsty, but it was only when she sat up that the pain behind her eyes intensified and the full savagery
of her headache became apparent.

She turned her head carefully to the left, but Tina’s bed was empty and her bag had gone. Only the empty cider bottles remained. The dormitory supervisor, who came round first thing to get
everybody up and to make sure that nobody had smuggled a man in overnight, seemed to take great delight in finding that Tina had absconded without paying for her bed and that Jo had been
’consuming alcohol on the premises’. She had no option but to report it to the hostel manager, she said, and bustled off to do that as quickly as she could. The hostel manager herself
was nicer about it. She believed Jo that it was Tina who’d brought the cider in, but said she would still have to ask Jo to leave – rules were rules, after all. But she did give her the
address of another hostel not far from Trafalgar Square, and she also said there was no hurry – Jo could have breakfast before she left, and she could also stay and have a bath if she
wished.