Page 25 of The Tapes
I nod, but it’s impossible not to stand a little straighter at the mention of her husband’s name. I’m on alert.
Seconds pass but it feels like longer. Allie is probably in her eighties now. She’s angling slightly to one side, as if one leg’s shorter than the other. Standing up seems exhausting for her but there is still a brightness to her eyes.
Sadness, too.
Because then she says the words I’ve been waiting more than two decades to hear.
‘I always knew you were telling the truth…’
TWELVE
I’m not sure why I came, but maybe it was for this. Maybe this is what I’ve always been waiting for. There’s a lump in my throat and I turn, blinking back the tears. I sense the old woman moving behind me but I can’t face her, especially not in this house. She must realise that because she lets the seconds pass until I’m finally able to twist back.
‘Do you want to come in?’ she asks.
I want to say no but, somehow, I’m inside the living room – and it’s the same as it always was. There’s the old bricked-up fireplace, with a rickety bookshelf in front; then the row of collectable plates on shelves near the back window. The television is newer, flatter, but still in the corner by the front. It’s like stepping into a time capsule – not only because barely anything has changed, but because it’s the mirror of the living room in which I grew up. All these houses have the same design.
‘Do you want a tea?’ Allie asks, bringing me back to the present. ‘Coffee?’ She’s in the doorway behind, leaning on the frame. I tell her I’ll have a tea, even though I don’t want one. The familiarity is so striking I can barely remember why I’m here. As she shuffles off to the kitchen, I’m left looking at the layer ofdust that’s crusted to the 1981 commemorative Royal Wedding plates.
Because Allie loved cooking, we’d often have Christmas dinner in this room, with tables dragged together; chairs carried from next door. I’d sit in the cramped corner, staring across to these exact plates, wondering if they were ever used.
Looking around the room I notice that Allie still has a VCR underneath the television, plus rows of video tapes with things likeTaggartandThe Billwritten on the labels. There are trinkets and tat, plus a pile of blankets on the radiator underneath the front window. I’m transfixed, and still doing a lap when Allie returns with a full tea tray. There are two mugs, a small jug of milk, a bowl of sugar, two teaspoons, and a plate with four pink wafers in a neat line.
We sit, and the sofa padding is barely existent as it feels as if I might fall through it. Allie has her recliner chair and oohs her way down, before picking up her tea. ‘Doctor says I’m not allowed sugar any more,’ she says. She nods towards the hall, and the kitchen beyond but, as I turn to look in the direction, she adds a swift: ‘Oh, Eve, love. I’m so sorry.’
There’s a quiet between us; the only sound the distant groan of a knackered car engine.
‘I know I should’ve said something at the time,’ Allie says. ‘I really wanted to. I almost did a couple of times but Jake… he, um…’
She tails off but there’s no need to finish the sentence.
I was fifteen when Jake Rowett pinned me to the wall in the hallway and put his hand inside my top. It was Christmas Day and I was in a green jumper that had white snowballs across the bottom. Mum had given it to me that morning and I’d worn it for her, with the strict insistence that I’d never wear it in public.
I still remember the scratchiness of the fabric as our neighbour’s hand groped his way inside.
Every time somebody says something similar nowadays – #metoo and all that – you get the people who insist it’s a lie, because the person didn’t speak up at the time. Except Ididexactly what all those people say. I went into the living room, where my mum, dad, and Allie were eating, and I told them exactly what had just happened. Jake said it was a misunderstanding. We’d passed in the hall and there was nothing untoward.
There were five people in that living room, including me, and everyone knew what had happened.
Everyone.
Nobody did anything.
Instead, the other three adults agreed that it had to be a misunderstanding, because it was easier if they did. We never visited for Christmas again, and I was never left alone with Jake. They all knew, and they all changed the way things were done – but none of them ever did anything in the moment.
I’ve been waiting twenty-five long years for Allie to finally say she knew I was telling the truth. It took everyone else dying for it to finally happen.
I should tell her it’s OK, that I appreciate the words, except I don’t think I do. Fifteen-year-old me needed to hear it; forty-year-old me doesn’t.
‘He deserved what happened to him,’ she adds – and I have to remind myself I’m there to ask about a jewellery box.
Not yet, though.
‘How did he die?’ I ask.
‘Heart attack. Ambulance got stuck in traffic and he was gone by the time they arrived.’
I picture him in pain, clutching his chest, waiting for that ambulance, feeling his lungs get tighter and tighter andtighter… except it doesn’t make me feel any better.
