Chapter 16
Tired after the trip to the solicitors, Sheila went to bed earlier than usual.
Cheryl settled her mother and then ran her own bath.
Along with the food treats she occasionally managed to sneak, sinking into hot water was perhaps the only sensual pleasure she had.
Only when she knew the sound of the water tank refilling would mask any noise she made did she let herself cry.
That morning, she’d had a future, could look forward to a time when she could live for herself, replace servitude with comfort, see something of the world and surround herself with nice things.
Now, nothing lay ahead but years of ever more laborious and disgusting tasks as Sheila became increasingly elderly and infirm.
And when her mother finally died, something worse.
Meadowcroft was the place the elderly went when they hadn’t the funds for anything better.
It had a terrible reputation. It was never properly clean, the food was inedible, the staff lazy and unreliable, management uncaring.
The only reason the local authority didn’t close it down was the knowledge that they’d have to find somewhere else to house the fifty or so residents.
Cheryl was shivering when she pulled herself out of the bath but couldn’t have said for certain whether it was with cold or anxiety. Only when she was downstairs in the kitchen did she remember the envelope from that morning.
Retrieving the post from the meter cupboard, Cheryl dropped the travel brochure into the kitchen bin.
She didn’t think she’d ever be able to look at one again.
As she carried the fancy envelope with the embossed writing back to the table she wondered if she’d have the nerve to kill herself, to slit her wrists in the bath, let her mother find her daughter’s corpse when she finally dragged herself out of bed.
Cheryl felt an unfamiliar stab of pleasure at the thought of her mother spending the rest of her own days in Meadowcroft, being taken care of by zero-hours strangers with unfamiliar accents and dark skin tones.
Her mother was shockingly racist; she’d hate being dependent upon people of colour for her intimate care.
Distracted by the thought of her mother’s discomfort, Cheryl was careless opening the letter and gave herself a small paper cut. Tears sprang into her eyes, as though they’d been waiting for the excuse. Attempting to suck the pain away, she pulled the headed letter out with her other hand.
As she blinked away tears the words came into focus.
This is your token. Keep it safe. Tell no one. On the event of my death, it entitles you to an equal share of my wealth. Good luck.
Logan Quick
Cheryl sat at the kitchen table for a long time. On the same day that her mother had announced plans to disinherit her, someone else was leaving her money. And the word wealth was mentioned. It was a joke, another cruel trick of Sheila’s. There was no way she was going to fall for it.
Nevertheless, before she went to bed that night, Cheryl retrieved the travel brochure from the kitchen bin.