Chapter 8 #4
‘I don’t want her to dream about me, I don’t want her to be asleep! I want her to be here with me!’ Nina yelled with her fists clenched.
‘I know, I know, and we will miss her, but you don’t have to worry. I am not going anywhere and even though it hurts now, we will be fine. We just have to keep looking forward.’ She recalled the way he had let his head fall to his chest, as if the strength had left every part of him.
‘Jeg har dig, Nina.’ I’ve got you, Nina . . . Tiggy had taken Nina’s hand and pulled her close, and this was how they sat, while their father silently wept. ‘That’s it, my girls,’ he managed. ‘You need to look after each other, always.’
But they hadn’t looked after each other; Nina had let down her side of the bargain. ‘I am so sorry.’ Nina spoke again, hoping that repetition might reinforce just how horrible she felt.
After Tiggy left, Nina splashed her face with cold water and left the flat for the supermarket.
She gripped her purse tightly. Hers was now a world of cash, and previously, if that cash fell from her pocket or was spent, the hole in the wall would simply provide more and, God forbid, if that failed, she could then call her husband .
. . There would simply be more to fill its place.
Things were so different; the small amount of money she had now was all that kept her and her boys from sliding into the abyss.
Making her way up and down the aisles, Nina cast an envious eye over women who shopped at great speed, tossing items into their cart with abandon as they worked down a long list of family favourites and reached for anything that caught their eye.
That used to be me . . .
She shopped slowly, careful to buy only what they really needed, comparing prices with precision.
They now ate foods that she knew would fill them cheaply and warmly.
Hovering at the pasta section, she ran her fingers over labels, looking for the biggest pack at the cheapest price, no longer concerned about the shape, design or even taste of a meal; these aspects were all secondary.
It was about bulk in the healthiest, cheapest way possible.
She selected a weighty pack of penne and laid it in the basket before moving on to potatoes and rice.
Her own meals consisted of what was left on the boys’ plates and one bowl of porridge in the mornings.
She had lost weight quickly and re-remembered the gnaw of hunger in her belly from childhood, when she would retire to bed with the feeling that the sides of her tummy were touching each other, her body coiled against the damp feel of the bed sheets.
She added up the cost so far, nervous of going over her allocated amount.
It was a funny thing, how she was adapting to life in these circumstances.
Memories came back to her, thrifty little tips and hints that hadn’t occurred to her for years, habits of her gran – like keeping roasting tins in the stove so as not to clutter up precious, limited cupboard space; stacking bowls within bowls within bowls; rinsing cordial bottles with water to get every last drop; and placing a glug of vinegar in a half-bottle of ketchup and giving it a good shake, to make it last longer.
And now as she wandered the aisles, she visualised the meals she would make and shopped accordingly, no longer frivolous or cavalier in her choices.
Instead, she chose value brand everything, along with the mauled and dented tins that were reduced, figuring that canned soup was canned soup whether it came in pristine packaging or not.
She made her way to the front, paid, and packed her bag, stopping to look at the community noticeboard on her way out.
There were several leaflets advertising yoga, Pilates, playgroups and book circles, as well as handwritten cards where gardeners, handymen and babysitters touted their skills.
Her eyes fell upon a typed card and the words ‘COOK WANTED’.
Nina reached up and ran her finger over the print.
It was for a place called Celandine Court.
I can do that. I can cook. I know I can!
‘It’s only just gone up, that one.’ A girl in supermarket uniform nodded towards the board.
‘Right, thanks.’ She gave a small smile.
This information felt like currency, a head start.
Her heart raced. If she went there now, straight away, it not only showed eagerness, but also gave her an advantage over anyone else.
Making a note of the address, Nina hurried from the store.
With her bag of groceries over her arm, she half ran, half walked the length of Portswood Road, turning right and then left until, fifteen minutes later, she found herself outside Celandine Court, home for senior citizens.
She walked up the block-paved driveway with a sense of trepidation.
Suddenly she felt sick to her stomach and hurried to hide behind a bush.
‘I can’t do this. I can’t!’ she whispered.
The bag of value brand pasta caught her eye in the shopping bag and reality hit: her funds were running out and in a matter of weeks they would be absolutely desperate.
She pictured her boys going to school with empty stomachs and having to move to a hostel.
Closing her eyes, she took deep breaths.
‘Okay.’ She pulled back her shoulders, wishing she wasn’t carrying her shopping and that she had dressed a little more appropriately.
She looked down at her jeans and padded coat that hid a raglan T-shirt.
It would have to do.
The 1970s red-brick building was a little uninspiring but two ornamental shrubs at either side of the door had been lovingly shaped and the sight of them lifted her spirits.
She cast her eye over the pristine paintwork and clean windows and tried to picture the inside.
It will be cold and institutional, but I don’t need to like it, I just need a job.
She pressed the buzzer for access into the sparse, square foyer.
‘Can I help you?’ the male voice was loud, but pleasant.
‘My name is Mrs McCarrick, I don’t have an appointment but I am here about the position of cook that you are advertising?’
There was a pause on the other end of the entryphone.
‘One moment please.’
Nina looked back at the path and considered running off, before remembering she had already given her name.
Come on, Nina, courage! You can conquer the world!
It’s just that tiny ball in the palm of your hand!
She pictured her little marble in its matchbox and felt a rush of confidence.
She put her shoulders back and stood tall.
The woman who opened the door was wearing a smart burgundy suit, a cream silk blouse, a string of pearls and neat square heels that matched the thin tortoiseshell headband that held back her dark, shiny hair.
Nina’s scruffy jeans seemed even worse for wear.
She ran her fingers through her hair, as if this might make the difference.
‘Can I help you? I’m Fiona. I manage Celandine Court.’ She stuck out her hand, which Nina shook.
‘Hello. I’m Nina.’ The woman was dazzling; it didn’t help her nerves an ounce.
‘Nina, I think there might have been a bit of a mix-up, for which I must apologise. My assistant Daisy is scheduling interviews and she’s off for a few days and hadn’t told me you were coming.
’ She placed her hand on her chest in a heartfelt gesture.
‘So firstly, I am so sorry if we seem a bit unprepared, but that’s because we are!
’ She laughed. Nina liked her honesty and felt the urge to match it.
‘Fiona, the fault is mine.’
‘Oh?’ Fiona studied her face.
‘I didn’t organise an interview with Daisy or anyone else. I just saw the card in the supermarket and came on the off chance. I figured I might be able to beat the competition and get here first!’
‘I did think it was unlike her.’ Fiona looked her up and down, as if checking her out, making a judgement call. ‘Well, as you’re here, I may as well show you around. Sign in, and I shall go over the basics and we can go from there. How does that sound? You can leave your bag here while we walk.’
‘That sounds great. Thank you.’ Nina breathed with relief; this was the furthest she had got in her quest to find work.
Fiona punched a code into the internal door and Nina found herself in a vast reception that felt part hospital, part hotel.
She looked at the grand display of white hydrangeas, the bushy heads of lilacs and the delicate stems of white tulips, and smiled.
Flowers she knew, and they would always be the thing she loved.
She looked up at the high cathedral-like glass roof, and was struck by the vast proportions.
The place was light and bright. There was nothing cold or institutional about it.
‘This is lovely.’
‘It is, isn’t it?’ the woman spoke with obvious pride. ‘Can I ask you to sign in? Name, time of arrival and telephone number.’
Nina gripped the pen, leaned over the visitor book and scribbled down her details.
‘I always like to start with a tour, so you can get a feel for the place and our residents.’ The woman clapped her hands together, as if this was the cue to get the tour under way.
‘This area is known as the atrium. It’s the heart of the building, where residents can greet visitors or just hang out for a cup of something.
’ Fiona pointed to fancy coffee machines, shiny white cups and saucers, and plates of biscuits sitting alongside.
Smart sofas were positioned in squares around low coffee tables.
Residents and guests sat on the wide comfy seats, some sipping coffee, some chatting; at least one was fast asleep, with his hands clasped across his chest and his head thrown back.
Nina thought of Hampy, her father-in-law, whom she had dearly loved.