Part One
* * *
1
Three months later, January 2019, Una
Ice crunches underfoot and I have to tread carefully in my boots, made for fashion and not for Arctic conditions. Even so, I slip and save myself from falling on my arse by grabbing on to the iron railings for dear life, my legs splaying as I try to regain my footing. Two teenage lads stroll past and one lets out a bark of laughter. I resist flicking the finger at them just in case my would-be employer witnesses me and decides I’m too uncouth for the job. Instead I try to get my legs under control and gingerly continue down the pavement, stooped like an old lady, until I reach the McKenzie house. I stop, my hands still clutching the railings, ice seeping through my woollen gloves, and stare up at it in awe.
It’s the colour of strawberry milkshake, curve-fronted, with four floors and Georgian sash windows that overlook the suspension bridge. There is a balcony on the first floor and a black-and-white-striped canopy that has been pulled back. For a brief moment I consider turning and legging it – which would actually be impossible in this snow and ice. Why did I ever think I’d get a job like this? I’ll be working at the care home with Randy Roger and Surly Cynthia until my dying days.
I dust snowflakes from the front of my best – my only – coat. It’s maroon with a black velvet collar. It makes me look younger than my twenty-two years, but it was my mum’s favourite. She bought it for my eighteenth birthday from a vintage shop in Camden Town. We used to love our trips to the market there. We made it an annual event, travelling back late at night in Mum’s clapped-out Alfa because it was cheaper than getting the train. This coat had cost her nearly a whole week’s wages. I still remember how her silver eyes lit up as she watched me unwrap it.
I swallow the lump in my throat. I can’t be sentimental today. Where will that get me? Mum would want this for me. I have to do my best. I’ve only ever had one interview before and that was just after I finished college.
The gate sticks against the snow, and I have to shove it hard to open it. Salt has been scattered on the pathway leading up to the house but I still tread carefully, scarred by my earlier slip. I notice a movement at the huge sash window and swallow again, my throat dry.
There is a slate sign on the house, partly covered by snow. I swipe it away with my gloved hand to read ‘The Cuckoo’s Nest’. A strange name for a house like this. It’s kind of creepy. I knock loudly on the front door (which is four times the size of my own) and feel like I’ve wandered out of Lilliput and into Gulliver’s world. It has stained-glass panels and glossy black paint. I stand back expectantly.
To my surprise, a woman in her late forties answers. I was imagining someone much older. She’s what my mum would call frumpy, in an unflattering shapeless skirt, high-necked blouse and oversized cardigan. But then my mum was still pretty cool in her late forties, with her bleached-blonde crop and leather biker jacket. I’m doing it again. I shake thoughts of her from my head and try to concentrate on the woman standing in front of me.
‘Hi. Mrs McKenzie? I’m here for the interview.’ I take off my gloves and thrust out my hand enthusiastically. ‘My name is Una Richardson.’
The woman stares at my proffered hand as though there’s dog shit in the palm. ‘I’m not Mrs McKenzie. I’m her daughter, Kathryn.’
I blush at my mistake and retract my hand. She must think I’m stupid as well as rude. Not a great first impression. She purses her thin lips as she surveys me, her face radiating disapproval as she takes in my not-warm-enough coat and my cheap New Look skirt. Then, without speaking, she stands aside to allow me in.
I step over the threshold, trying to prevent my mouth from falling open. I’ve never been in a home so … well, so grand. I feel like I’ve stumbled into a giant doll’s house. There are ornate brown and blue Victorian tiles on the floor, an arched wall with pillars either side, and beyond that, a sweeping staircase with a blue-and-cream-striped runner. A grandfather clock stands proudly against one wall. Everything is painted in tasteful neutrals. The hallway is bigger than my whole flat.
‘I’m glad to see the recent snowfall didn’t hinder your journey,’ she says stiffly, almost regretfully, as though she’d hoped I wouldn’t make the interview.
I have to stop myself apologizing for showing up. ‘The main roads are clear. And luckily my bus was running.’
‘Yes. What luck.’ She turns on her sensible low-heeled shoes towards a closed door on the left. I shove my soggy gloves into my coat pocket, then follow her. My nerves crank up a notch at the thought of meeting Mrs McKenzie, especially if she’s anything like her daughter.
‘You can go in.’ Kathryn doesn’t try to hide her irritation, which shows in her voice. Up close, I can tell she’s attractive. Her eyes are hazel behind her large glasses and she has the type of skin that looks as though it tans easily. Her hair is thick and a rich chestnut. But she’s wearing such a pinched expression that I don’t warm to her.
She tuts under her breath when I don’t move, and leans across me, engulfing me in a wave of musky perfume, to open the door.
Come on, get a grip. This is my chance to start over and get away from that awful care home, although I will miss the residents.
Tentatively I move into the room. It has high ceilings, with mismatched high-backed chairs and an inky blue velvet button-backed sofa. There’s a mahogany writing desk in the corner, next to the sash window. A well-dressed woman in a tweed pencil skirt and a pale blue jumper, pearls at her throat, sits on a chair by a huge marble fireplace, her legs crossed elegantly at the ankles. Her hair is completely white and gathered in some kind of fancy updo. She has a clipboard on her knee with what looks like notes attached, which she’s flicking through.
She lifts her eyes as I approach. They are small and a startling bright blue, like the bubblegum-flavoured Millions sweets my best friend, Courtney, used to eat when we were younger. Even though she’s sitting down I can tell she’s tall – taller than me, anyway – slim, and looks robust and strong for a woman in her late seventies.
‘Hello,’ she says, without getting up. She doesn’t take her eyes off me, even when Kathryn sits in the chair next to her. ‘You must be Una. An unusual name.’
I smile and nod as she indicates for me to sit on the sofa opposite. ‘My mum was a fan of the actress Una Stubbs. You know, who played Aunt Sally in Worzel Gummidge?’ I perch on the edge of the sofa, crossing my ankles, like her, and pulling at the hem of my skirt, which, in the presence of these two women, now feels obscenely short. ‘I know her best from Sherlock …’ I’m gabbling now.
Mrs McKenzie frowns. ‘I don’t know about that but I do know who you mean. I’ve seen her in the West End,’ she says, without smiling. My eyes flicker around the room. There is no television. She clears her throat and I sit up a bit straighter. ‘So, tell us a little about yourself.’ Her voice is plummy and I make an effort to speak correctly in what my mum used to call a telephone voice.
‘Well … I …’ I swallow. Come on, Una, don’t mess this up. Don’t be intimidated by these people just because they’re posh. I notice Mrs McKenzie’s eyes go to my legs and then back to my face. Maybe I don’t seem responsible enough. I know I look young for my age. I’m forever getting asked for ID. ‘I’ve been working in a care home for the past four and a half years, since I left higher education at eighteen. I’ve several qualifications from the college I went to on day release –’