CHARITY — an extract

Lauren 
I didn’t like the house at first. I literally felt like it was looking down and judging me. It and all the other houses in the square, all of them exactly the same, with their shiny blank windows, glossy black front doors and spotless grey brickwork, no gaps, no cracks, all of them lined up against me.

‘Alright mate,’ I thought. ‘You might be high and mighty, looking like you belong on Downing street or something, but we’ll see who’s going to end up the winner here.’

That was the other thing about the house, right from the beginning I found myself talking to it like it was a person.

Even the pavement was clean, no litter or ground in gum, nothing, just this old-fashioned bike with a basket, chained to the railings. It was so quiet there, you couldn’t even hear any traffic, just some birds squawking at each other like they were having a mighty row about something.

The park in the middle was lovely though, full of big old trees. A woman was sitting on a bench in the sun eating a sandwich and reading a magazine. She looked like she was enjoying her lunchbreak, I wished I could swap places with her.

It took ages for Mrs Forbes to open the front door. I thought maybe the bell wasn’t working, or she might be deaf and not hear it. I lifted the brass knocker and gave a little rap. I didn’t want to come across as rude or impatient. The longer I waited the more jittery I got. My palms were all sweaty from nerves, I wiped them on my skirt in case she shook my hand.

I could just walk away now, before it was too late, forget the whole crazy scheme. I didn’t really want to meet Edith Forbes, didn’t want anything to do with her.

I had to give myself a little pep talk. This wasn’t just about me, I was doing it for Nan. And it wasn’t like I had any other options, I couldn’t stay at Sam’s much longer, she’d be home from Uni soon and want her bedroom back to herself. I could tell her parents were getting pissed off with me being there, her mum kept asking if I’d found somewhere else yet. Like I could afford anywhere in London.

I looked up at the house towering above me. I’d be mad to pass up the chance to live here. And think of the fares I’d save getting into work. I’d never be able to look myself in the face again if I didn’t go through with this. I’d feel like a complete waste of space.

I knocked again, louder this time.

She was kind of how I expected, short silver hair set in waves, tweed skirt and pink round neck cardigan, very M&S, Tory lady, even though she lived in Islington. She waited for me to introduce myself before letting me in, checking me over with her light blue eyes. She was thin and a bit twitchy, seemed very with it. I’d have to watch what I said around her.

‘I’ve made tea,’ she said, expecting me to just follow her as she thumped away down the hall with her walking-frame.

A tray was all set up in the kitchen, with cups and saucers, a milk jug and a teapot. It was the Barker Brothers Art Deco tea set, hand-painted with red and gold cherries, but of course I didn’t know that then. She’d even bought these fancy chocolate biscuits, Florentines. I think she was trying to show the kind of standards she expected from the start. Her hands shook as she poured boiling water into the teapot, half of it splashed onto the biscuits, melting the chocolate. At least she let me carry the tray through to the front-room, well, ordered me more like.

It was a massive room with a real marble fireplace, very old-fashioned. It had that furry wallpaper, like the Taj Mahal restaurant me and Mum used to go to for a treat, only in grey, which seemed a bit of a weird colour choice for a living-room.

She made me sit on a wooden chair in the middle of the room, like I was in a gangland interrogation or something, only with tea and biscuits, which I didn’t even want, balanced on my lap. Talk about putting me at a disadvantage.

A framed black and white photo hung on the wall, I guessed it was Colonel Forbes, he was wearing his uniform, medals and all. I tried not to look at it, to focus on her instead, but it was like a magnet pulling at my eyes.

She noticed. ‘Handsome chap, my husband.’ She sounded proud.

I just nodded, couldn’t handle thinking about him right now.

Still, we hit it off straightaway, without me having to try too hard even. She’d been an actress when she was young, before she got married. Just amateur dramatics, but she had that way of talking, you know, like Judi Dench or the duchess off of Downton.

‘Why'd you stop?’ I asked her.

‘Graham didn’t approve. I grew up in Kenya. The Europeans in Kenya may have had a reputation for louche behaviour, but I married an Englishman, military, straight as a die. He had certain expectations of his wife.’

She had a funny way of pronouncing Kenya, ‘Keenya’, very posh.

I told her how I was a beautician, I’d almost got my Level two diploma and was training for a level three in advanced nail technology. That impressed her, she didn’t even know there was such a thing as nail technology.  She said she had arthritis in her hands, could hardly move her fingers, so I offered to give them a massage. I know where the reflexology pressure points are, to stimulate blood flow and improve overall health.

I had some hand cream in my bag and I worked it gently into her hands: the loose flesh, the backs all blotchy with freckles, her knobbly fingers, her flaky nails. Old people don’t bother me. She still wore her wedding and engagement rings, yellow and white gold, the wedding ring set with round cut diamonds and three blue sapphires, the engagement ring with a single solitaire diamond. I guess Forbes had chosen them, or maybe they picked them out together. Her fingers were a bit swollen so I had to leave them on.

I moved in a week later. Didn’t have much stuff, just Ubered it over from Sam’s. It was amazing to have my own room again, top of the house, at the back. ‘So here I am,’ I said to the house. ‘King of the castle and nothing you can do about it.’ I could see over the whole manor, nicely kept gardens, all tasteful shrubs and shaped lawns. Blue and white flowers, bit on the cold side. None of the bright orange or pink flowers my nan used to love. Only one house had a trampoline, a huge one with a net around it, bet the neighbours hated that. Not that I ever saw any kids on it. Amber and Leo would’ve loved it, they were always asking Mum for a trampoline. The house opposite had a conservatory built onto the kitchen. Sometimes you could see people moving about in there, glass of wine in their hands. A middle-aged couple, you could tell they loved each other, he used to kiss her on the cheek when he topped up her glass and sometimes they just stood together looking out at the garden. When it was hot they ate outside at a long table they’d cover with a white cloth and set with all these different coloured bowls and plates and napkins, turquoise and emerald and terracotta, like something off Instagram. Then they had friends over, or their kids would be there. I guess they were students home from Uni, looked the type. You could just hear the murmur of their voices and their laughter, but it never got too raucous.

It was quiet there, at the back of the house. I’d leave my window open and all these gorgeous smells would drift up from the gardens below. Better than a Glade. Better than the smell of diesel. Apart from the odd siren I hardly knew I was in London.

I’d told Mrs Forbes I didn’t smoke. I’d been meaning to give up anyway, there’s nothing worse than getting a facial off someone with fingers stinking of fags. I was surprised how easy it was in that house, not to smoke. It was like I was stepping into a new personality. I wish I could say I was leaving all the bad bits behind, becoming a better person, but it wasn’t like that, it couldn’t be.

      Sometimes I felt homesick, seeing that family eating together, but homesick for what? What home? Michael was a prick, either bossing me around or ignoring me; making a big show of Amber and Leo. Mum still hadn’t forgiven me for not going to Uni. You’d think she’d be pleased, I was training for something that would actually lead to a job, instead of wasting my time getting drunk and racking up the debts.

      ‘But you did so well in your A’ levels and you can’t get a decent job now without a degree.’

I told her I could end up on Harley Street, she should see the prices those aesthetic therapists charge, it’s a growing industry.

The only thing Michael agreed with me on, the pointlessness of going to university. God knows why Miss Grey kept pressurising me to apply to Uni, she was always telling me off in class, either I was talking too much or too little. It was probably just for some Ofsted form or something, make the school stats look good. Anyway, I like doing something practical. I love messing around with all the bottles and colours, making women feel good about themselves. Some of them treat you like shit of course, but there’s others that are really nice. This lady came into the store the other day, said she’d never dared wear make-up, her husband used to knock her around. She had a scar on her cheek from where he’d hit her. I did a full make-over for her. Took ages. But by the end you couldn’t even see the scar. She was over the moon, said I’d made her feel confident about herself again. She said I should get a job as a make-up artist on films or TV. Maybe I will, use my creative side. That’s the thing, just because I’m training in beauty therapy, doesn’t mean I have to spend my life doing it.

I’m going to live like those people, in the house opposite. I’m going to have the sort of home people want to visit, all warm and golden and glowing. Anyone with troubles, they’ll know they can just drop in and I’ll put on the kettle or open a bottle of something. We’ll sit around the kitchen table, or out in the garden under the trees and they’ll tell me all about it. There’ll always be a bed made up in the spare room. My husband won’t mind. He’ll be the understanding, laid back type.

Mrs Forbes’ room was at the front of the house, on the first floor. She kept saying she’d have to move downstairs, but I told her we’d get a stair-lift. She didn’t want to give up her bedroom. It was a beautiful room. Two long windows, nearly floor to ceiling, looking out on the square. And her bed was a massive old thing with a carved headboard, we’d never of got that downstairs. Plus, she had a double wardrobe and a dressing table. It was like something out of one of those old black and white films with Katherine Hepburn or Greta Garbo I used to watch in the afternoons with Nan.  Sometimes I watched them with Mrs Forbes. Her TV was crap though. I kept telling her we should get a new one, big one with a sound bar so she could actually hear it. She said she'd think about it, which meant ‘No’ as far as Mrs Forbes was concerned.

I did offer to pay some rent, felt like I had to really, but she said she’d rather I paid her ‘in kind’.

‘I’ll train you up to be a first-rate house-keeper,’ she said.

That was okay, she could think that for now. One day I’d tell her the truth, then she’d know I wasn’t nobody’s fucking servant.

Edith 
‘Where are you from?’

I looked up from my list of questions intending to look stern, but my hand betrayed me, shaking visibly as I removed my reading-glasses. It was the arthritis, but I didn’t get a chance to explain that.

‘London.’

‘I thought a Londoner would be better placed to find their own accommodation. What about your family?’

The girl gave a slight shrug. ‘No space. My brother and sister are getting too old to share a bedroom, and well, to be honest, me and my step-dad don’t exactly get along.’ She sounded apologetic rather than self-pitying.

‘You come from a broken home? Or is your father deceased?’

‘Dead? Don’t think so, haven’t seen him since I was little. He could be anywhere.’ She glanced out of the window, as though she might spot him suddenly on the street outside.

‘Your mother remarried?’

‘She was never married to my dad in the first place, but she is married now, yeah, and I’ve got a half-brother and half-sister.’

‘I suppose that makes one full sibling.’ 

Lauren smiled at my attempted witticism and I warmed to her. She had a delightful smile, open and spontaneous. I didn’t think someone with a smile like that would be capable of much dishonesty, however unfortunate their circumstances. I could see that she was nervous. She sat perched on the edge of her chair, holding onto her cup and saucer throughout our interview without, as far as I could see, taking one sip of tea.

‘Why don’t you share a flat with someone, a friend or colleague say?’

Paul had assured me that, on paper, she was the best candidate by far, but I wasn’t taking any chances with someone I was bringing into my home. I hadn’t had servants since we left Africa, things are different there of course, but still, I’d had enough bad experiences to be cautious.

‘London rents are mad, there’s just no way I can afford them, even sharing a flat.’ She jerked her hand and some tea slopped out of her cup and into the saucer. ‘Most of my friends are at uni. I can only work part-time while I do my Level 2 Diploma in Beauty Therapy, I’ve nearly completed it. Eventually I aim to run my own salon.’ She nodded proudly.

I glanced down at my notes. The letters looped across the page in indecipherable waves. Couldn’t see where I’d put my glasses now.

‘I was really looking for someone with nursing experience.’

‘I’ve done a first aid course, and I’m used to handling bodies. I’ve already got a Level 3 Award in Intimate Waxing.’   

‘Intimate?’ I waved my hand at her and she closed her mouth. I’d read about this fashion for the complete removal of body hair. It had something to do with pornography. I hoped she wasn’t involved in anything like that, though she didn’t look buxom enough for a stripper; she was a skinny little thing with knobbly knees.

‘I haven’t shaved my legs in years.’ I looked down at my calves, they were still very shapely and they seemed to have stopped producing hair, which was convenient.

‘Oh, no, I just meant, you know, you get to see it all in my job. Plus, I’m quite strong, physically. You have to stand for hours working at a beauty counter, you’re not allowed to sit down and they make you wear high heels. So, if you need help getting up and down the stairs, to the bathroom, that kind of thing, that’s no problem for me.’

‘I’m not incontinent yet, thank you very much.’

Though I had to admit, things weren’t as watertight as they used to be. She offered to give me a pedicure, but I declined. I wasn't about to remove my shoes in the middle of an interview.

'A hand massage then?'

Why was she so keen on physical contact? 

‘Can you cook?’ Someone that thin was unlikely to have much appreciation of food. She’d hardly taken a bite out of the biscuits I’d bought.

‘Yes, I’m quite a good cook actually. I got an A* in Food Technology at GCSE.’

‘Doesn’t sound very appetising. What has technology got to do with food?’

‘We learnt all about nutrition, so I can make sure your meals are balanced and healthy, plus,’ she held up one finger, ‘the design side, not just the appearance but the sensory experience as well.’

‘Goodness, it all sounds very space age.’

‘This is a beautiful room, Mrs Forbes.’

The girl swivelled round in her chair, taking in the sitting-room with her large eyes. They were an unusual colour, almost golden when they caught the light, with flecks of green.

‘So big, and I love the wallpaper, very vintage. I’ve never seen that type of wallpaper in those sorts of colours before.’

I followed her gaze. ‘Flock wallpaper, blue-grey, the pattern is traditional Damask.’

Apart from a bit of re-painting, this room hadn’t been changed since I first decorated it, back in the 70s. It’s funny to think of it now, but when Graham suggested moving to Islington I’d been horrified. It was what you might call a ghetto back in those days, full of immigrants, West-Indians mostly. Graham had pointed out that Barnsbury was different, it had been turned into a conservation area with no through traffic and you could pick up a three storey Georgian for a steal. The council tenants had all been moved on to more suitable places, like Holloway. I still think of myself as living in Barnsbury rather than Islington; old habits die hard.

‘Flock is very hard-wearing. I don’t think elegance ever dates, does it?’

She leant towards me eagerly. ‘That’s exactly it, it’s that classic look, timeless elegance, same as with clothes.’

I had been hoping for a medical student, but none had answered my advertisement. Lauren was my best option. We agreed to a trial period of six weeks. She seemed harmless enough, submissive, well-intentioned, not terribly intelligent, but bright and bubbly enough to make pleasant company. And at least she was fairly well-spoken. She said that was her grandmother’s influence, apparently she was a real stickler about grammar, which was quite reassuring to hear.

  I wasn’t sure I had the energy to really train her up, but if she was the best of the bunch, well, she’d just have to do. I couldn’t afford live-in help from a professional and I couldn’t bear to be stuck in a nursing home, being patronised, or worse, maltreated, by foreigners with hardly a word of English. The house was too large for one person, and, I have to admit, I found living on my own quite lonely. I never had, before Graham died. But I had promised myself, the only way I was going to leave that house was to be carried out feet first.

Lauren
‘I ain’t being funny, but does it smell?’ Stacey asked. ‘Bit depressing init? Like living in a old people’s home.’

‘What you talking about?’ Ash sprayed a shot of eau de cologne in Stacey’s direction. ‘She’s living in that big old house rent free, what’s not to like? Why don’t you invite us round, have a party?’ Ash laughed.

He knew I wouldn’t do that. Edith didn’t like guests. It was one of the rules, no guests. That was alright. It’s fine to have rules if they’re set down from the start and you both agree to them. It’s when people introduce new rules, out of the blue, that’s when you get problems.

‘Wish I could move out of my Mum’s, she doing my head in.’ Stacey sighed. ‘Dunno how I’ll ever save enough money for a deposit though. Even fifty pound a month, I can’t even save that. Just getting here cost’s a fortune, do you know what I mean? Then there’s lunch, I buy like salmon, tuna, and fucking avocado, it all adds up don’t it?’

‘You should bring in a packed lunch, some grains, a bit of salad, fruit.’ Ash mimed fitting his imaginary lunch into the compartments of a box, not that he’d be caught dead with anything so fresh off the boat as a plastic lunch box.

Stacey snorted. ‘I don’t have time for all that, takes me an hour just do my hair every morning, then it’s over an hour to get here, init.’ Stacey lived miles out, in Enfield or somewhere like that. ‘Least I can do my make-up on the train.’ She put a hand up to her mouth, looking at me like a thought had just popped into her head. ‘Oh, babe, do you have to wipe her bum?’

‘Who’s bum?’

‘Your old lady’s!’

Stacey could be a right idiot sometimes.

‘I just do her shopping, cook her dinner and clean the house. Things I’d be doing anyway if it was just me.’

I checked the foundations were lined up in the right order, from Ivory to Cappuccino. There was nothing in the range for skin darker than milky brown.

‘Fair exchange,’ Ash said, fanning himself with perfume tester cards. ‘Maybe I should find myself some rich old lady, marry her before she dies and inherit the lot.’ He raised his eyebrows at a middle-aged woman checking out the lipsticks on the Bobbi Brown counter.

‘Don’t be sick, Ash. Anyway, Edith’s got a daughter.’

‘Why don’t her daughter look after her then?’ Stacey said, staring blankly at the middle-aged woman who’d started giving us dirty looks.

‘They don’t speak no more.’ I swapped the Warm Beige and Sand Dune over to their correct places.

‘I wish my mum would stop fucking talking to me for a while.’ Stacey swivelled round, she was sitting on the chair meant for customers. She never even tried to look busy. ‘To be fair though babe, she could pay for someone to take care of her mum, d’you know what I mean?’

‘Edith doesn’t want a carer. She calls me her flatmate.’

‘Hardly a flat though is it?’ Ash said. ‘Sir, would you like to try the new Acqua di Palma unisex fragrance?’ He strolled off after a man in a Paul Smith suit.

I wished I’d never said anything about Edith’s daughter, made me feel anxious. Out of sight and out of mind, that’s where I needed her to stay.

‘Can I help you?’ I forced myself to smile at the middle-aged woman smearing the wrong shade of concealer over her under-eye shadows.

‘That ain’t even a tester.’ Stacey was muttering behind me.