‘All of you, stay away from me,’ she snarled through gritted teeth.
‘Hey, Grace, why don’t you come outside with me?’ Lottie said as she reached the distraught and dishevelled young woman.
‘I only asked her where she’d live,’ one man said. ‘She lost the plot when I—’
‘Give her a break,’ another interrupted.
Lottie had heard enough. She needed to calmly extricate Grace from the melee.
‘Stand back. Give her some air. Fetch a glass of water.’ She stared at the crowd. ‘Now.’
At last the gathering dispersed and someone thrust a pint glass of water into her hand. She slid onto the bench next to Grace.
‘Sip this. It will help cool you down.’
She was surprised when the other woman took the glass and gulped a mouthful, without raising her eyes.
‘Don’t mind what any of them are saying. What do men know about grief, eh?’
Grace began to hiccup.
‘Slowly. Just sips. Come on.’
‘I’m not a child.’ Anger flashed in her eyes.
‘Do you want to come outside? Mark’s out there. Maybe you can tell him what’s wrong.’
‘He doesn’t get me, Lottie. No one does. Not even you.’ Grace wiped her nose with the back of her hand, childlike.
‘I have a fair bit of experience with my own gang; why don’t you try me?’
Grace shook her head and handed back the glass. ‘I want to go home. Can you bring me?’
‘Sure I can.’ Lottie handed her a napkin from the table. ‘Dry your eyes and let’s get out of here.’
Grace stood and wiped her face. She scrunched the napkin and stuffed it into her handbag. ‘I like you, Lottie, and I’m glad you’re sticking with my brother.’
‘That’s sweet of you, but listen to me. I’m here for you too.’
‘But my mam … I’m going to miss her so much. Can you understand that?’
‘I lost my husband, so yes, I understand it better than you can ever know. Now let’s get the hell out of here.’
‘I’d love a plate of bacon and cabbage. Do you think you could cook that?’
Lottie groaned inwardly. Culinary expertise was not on her talent list. Grace was craving something her mother had cooked. Something to keep her alive in her mind.
‘Where was your mother’s favourite place to visit?’
‘The Twelve Pins.’
‘Well then, that’s where we’re going.’
‘You’re so good, Lottie.’ Grace sniffed. ‘Thank you.’
The lump in Lottie’s throat bulged. She found it difficult to be this sympathetic with her own kids, so how was it she could mother this thirty-something-year-old woman? Unable to find the answer, she walked over to Boyd, who was standing by the door.
‘You know the way?’
‘Yes, boss.’ He winked at Grace, whose face broke into a sad smile.
‘And then I have to head back to Ragmullin,’ Lottie said. Lowering her voice, she whispered in Boyd’s ear, ‘With or without you.’
Two
Monday
The three-bedroom 1950s detached house with a square patch of overgrown grass and a cracked path up to the front door was the second in a line of ten houses. Someone had constructed a ramp and a rail to the side of the two front steps. Jeff’s aunt, Patsy Cole, had only been sixty when she’d died in bed here two years ago, but that didn’t worry Faye. She didn’t believe in spirits or ghosts. She was happy. At last they had a place to call their own. Once they had it renovated and decorated, she would be able to escape from their tiny apartment. She rubbed her hand over her white cotton shirt and with a thrill of excitement felt the as yet invisible bump beneath it.
The key turned easily in the lock. She shoved open the door and stepped onto the grey linoleum with its discoloured lines down either side from Patsy’s wheelchair. That would have to go, she thought as she moved into the living room.
The fireplace was on the wall across from her. Tiger-striped tiles around the broken grate and smoke residue on the flowery wallpaper. Jeff had already taken a lot of the furniture to the recycling centre, and most of the rubbish had gone to the dump. There wasn’t even anything worthy of bringing to a charity shop. All that remained of the furniture in this room was an old armchair and the threadbare orange carpet.
Faye paused at the window. She touched her stomach again and smiled. Their very own place. She looked around and decided that the first thing to go would be the wallpaper. It was garish and faded, blackened and torn, and it made the room look smaller than it actually was. They planned to knock down the wall dividing the living room from the kitchen. She tried to envisage an open-plan area, but standing here with the three-bulb light fitting whispering over her hair, she wondered if that would even work. It really was very small.
From a miniature toolkit she extracted a paint scraper, then filled a plastic basin with yellow water from the kitchen tap and began to dampen the wallpaper in the corner by the window. At first she moved slowly, fearful of nicking the plaster beneath, but then she felt an adrenaline rush forcing her to rid every wall of the hideous paper, and within an hour she was over by the fireplace. Her feet were surrounded by scraps of damp, mouldy wallpaper, which stuck to her jeans and white Converse shoes. She didn’t care.
The paper to the left of the fireplace came away more easily than any other area. She used her fingers to pull and tug, and it ripped off in one long strip. With the paint scraper, she tapped the plaster. It sounded hollow. She knocked on the wall to the right of it. Solid.
She stepped back and regarded the wall. The plaster on the two sections appeared different. One was fresher than the other. She wondered why this was so. Then she remembered Jeff saying that there used to be a stove-like range in this room, but that his uncle had taken it out and installed a fireplace before he’d built on the back kitchen. She knew then that the extension had to go. The roof was flat and leaking.
She sighed at the amount of work they had to do. They’d agreed to carry out the upgrade themselves. It’ll be cheaper, Jeff had said, and we’re in no hurry. But she was. She wanted to move in before the baby arrived. That gave them less than six months. Maybe if they knocked out this piece here, she thought, they’d have a nice alcove. She could get IKEA shelving. It would go well with the woodchip burner she’d already picked out. A trickle of excitement built up in her chest.
In the kitchen, she found Jeff’s larger toolbox. She picked up the lump hammer and went back to the living room. Now or never, she thought, and swung the hammer at the centre of the plaster. Soon she was covered in grime. A weave of dust motes swam in front of her eyes. She should have put on the goggles. Taking a step back to admire her handiwork, she sighed. She’d only made a small hole, even though she felt like she’d been hammering for hours.
With her fingers, she tugged at the plasterboard, trying to draw it away from the wall. At last it came away in her hand. A bigger hole opened up beside the old tiled fireplace. Maybe Jeff’s uncle and aunt had left a time capsule inside, she thought. That would be exciting.
Suddenly the tiny hairs stood up on the back of her neck beneath her scrunched-up ponytail. Maybe this wall was never meant to come down.