Postcards From a Stranger Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2017, 2018 by Imogen Clark

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle

  Previously self-published in Great Britain in 2017. This edition contains editorial revisions.

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781503902497

  ISBN-10: 1503902498

  Cover design by Emma Rogers

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  BOOK CLUB QUESTIONS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PROLOGUE

  1987

  The post hits the doormat with a thud.

  He hears it, his ears tuned by months of careful listening. He should go and retrieve what has been delivered, sort through it, check. But the egg that he’s been frying is almost perfect. If he takes it from the heat now, the white will stay slightly viscous. If he leaves it, the yolk will go hard and spoil that pleasing moment when he pierces its surface with his fork.

  He listens but he can’t hear the children. They must be upstairs. The post can wait for a moment or two. Who’s to say that there’ll be a postcard today anyway? It’s not like they arrive every morning.

  He returns his attention to the egg, watching as the edges begin to crisp, holding the fish slice poised. At precisely the right moment, he flips it out on to the waiting plate. Then he goes to get the post.

  His daughter stands in the hallway, her nappy hanging heavy from her tiny three-year-old hips. In her hand is a postcard.

  ‘Daddy,’ she says when she sees him, her pretty face lighting up. ‘Look what the postman bringed.’ She shows him the postcard. It is a picture of a chimpanzee cradling its baby safely in its arms. ‘What do the words read?’ she asks, passing the card up to his waiting hand.

  He turns it over but he knows what the single line of script will say. It is always the same. He doesn’t let his eyes settle on it.

  ‘I’ve told you before,’ he says firmly, her question ignored. ‘You must not touch the post, Cara. It’s for Daddy.’

  He picks up the rest of the letters and buries the postcard among the manila.

  ‘Now, go and tell your brother that breakfast is ready.’

  He watches as she trails off up the hall and makes a mental note never to let that happen again.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Cara, 2017

  ‘I can’t do this on my own anymore!’

  I shout it down the phone. I don’t mean to shout. It’s just how my voice comes out. ‘I need some help,’ I say more quietly.

  I put my hand over the mouthpiece to muffle my voice. ‘Dad!’ I plead. ‘Stop making that racket.’

  Dad looks at me, his eyes mildly curious, but he does not stop. The crack of metal spoon on wooden table continues to pummel my delicate nerve endings. I remember the advice that I got from the specialist-care team and take another deep breath. ‘Please!’ I add with the best smile I can muster.

  I remove my hand and continue the conversation with my brother.

  ‘Can you hear that?’ I ask, even though most of the country must be able to hear it. ‘That sound is our father banging a spoon on the table. He’s been doing it for the last hour and a half. He won’t stop and he won’t give me the spoon. Honestly, Michael. I’m not sure I can cope for much longer.’

  I can feel the tears pooling behind my eyelids but I don’t want Dad to see that I am upset so I press my lips together tightly and take a deep breath through my nose.

  ‘Just stay there, Dad,’ I say as calmly as I can. ‘I’m talking to Michael. I’ll be back in a minute.’

  I scan the room for stray knives or anything else that Dad might be able to harm himself with then I gently tap the top of his greasy head and go out into the hall, leaving the door slightly ajar. The banging continues.

  ‘I can see it’s difficult for you, Cara,’ Michael says from the safety of his office hundreds of miles away. ‘I would help more if I could but you know how it is . . .’

  His voice trails off but I can’t detect anything in his tone that’s even close to guilt.

  ‘I know,’ I snap back. ‘And I’m not asking you to help with the day-to-day stuff. But I can’t carry on by myself. I’m out of my depth here, Michael. He keeps getting worse and worse. Sometimes, I get so angry with him that I’m worried I might . . .’

  I stop before voicing what I might do and let it hang menacingly in the air between us. Michael doesn’t reply.

  ‘We need a nurse,’ I continue. ‘Someone who’s trained to look after people like Dad. They don’t need to live in – well, not yet – but I need someone here during the day so that I can work and do the shopping and, well, go to the loo without worrying what he’ll get up to when I’m away. Dad can afford to pay. There’s no point him just sitting on our inheritance. I’d rather we find some care for him. Some proper care.’

  There is no sound on the other end and I wonder if the line’s been cut.

  ‘Michael? Michael? Are you still there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  His voice sounds distant.

  ‘Okay,’ he says eventually. ‘You know best. If you really can’t cope and a nurse is the only solution then go ahead. How will you go about finding one?’ he asks.

  ‘There’s an agency in town,’ I say. ‘It comes highly recommended.’

  I don’t add that the recommendations were on Twitter and mad
e by someone I don’t know from Adam. I can do the research now that I have Michael’s say-so.

  ‘I’ll give them a ring and set up a meeting,’ I say.

  I can hear muffled talking at Michael’s end. He isn’t on his own anymore and I know that I’ve had the best of his attention.

  ‘I have to go,’ he says in his unfamiliar telephone voice. ‘You go ahead and fix that up and let me know how you get on.’

  He might have been talking to some stuffed-shirt client about a takeover rather than his sister about his seriously ill father. I am about to put the phone down on him when I hear him whisper: ‘Keep going, Ca. You’re doing a great job.’

  The line goes dead.

  I stand in the hall and breathe deeply, trying to get my thoughts to line up neatly despite the noise coming from the kitchen. Dad has stopped banging now. He is singing something. I listen harder and it is the first line of a hymn that I learned at school.

  ‘Oh, when the saints . . . go marching in . . .’

  His voice is clear, as if the tangles in his brain have smoothed themselves out for long enough to let him remember how to carry a tune. The words, however, are beyond him.

  ‘Cara!’ he shouts. ‘Cara!’

  I try singing the hymn from the beginning myself to see if I can help but I can only get as far as Dad got before my mind goes blank. It can be hereditary, you know, Alzheimer’s. God knows who will be there to look after me.

  Dad starts on the hymn again from the beginning. ‘Oh, when the saints . . . go marching in . . .’

  Then the spoon starts up its relentless beat on the tabletop, not in time with the words but raggle-taggle, like new recruits out of step with their platoon. I look at my watch. It won’t be long before Social Services arrive to take Dad away to the day centre. I just have to stay calm and in control until then. I can’t blame Michael, not really. He escaped. His life is in London now and he can’t come running back up here at the first sign of trouble. It might be nice if he came back occasionally but Michael’s solution to the problem of what to do with Dad is to leave it to me. It’s not unreasonable, I suppose. I am the one left here trying to hold it all together. But, like a little girl, I still feel like I need my big brother’s blessing. I’m scared to forge ahead on my own, make the difficult decisions, but that is exactly what I’m going to have to do. I know that Michael gave up worrying about what happened to Dad a long time ago.

  There is a knock at the door, the confident rap of a frequent visitor.

  ‘Dad, Brian is here to take you to The Limes,’ I shout, hoping that Brian can’t hear the relief in my voice. ‘Maybe he knows the next line of “When the Saints”?’ I add. The tune is still chasing its tail in my head.

  I open the door and there stands Brian, short and stocky with hands like shovels and a voice you could grate cheese on.

  ‘Come in,’ I say. ‘We’re nearly ready. Right, Dad . . .’

  I push open the kitchen door and Dad is standing by the sink pouring a full pint of milk on to the floor. Teabags are scattered around him like fallen leaves. He smiles at me, a toddler with a new painting.

  ‘Tea,’ he says.

  ‘Oh, Dad!’ I say as I take in the devastation.

  I’m trying to see where the outlying milk has trickled so I can make sure it is not going to seep into anywhere that I can’t clean up. Last time he did this it took weeks to get rid of the stench.

  ‘Brian will get you a cup of tea when you get to The Limes,’ I say, smiling through gritted teeth. ‘Come on now. Let’s not keep him waiting.’

  I take Dad’s hand and give it a squeeze. There is no response. He follows behind me, splashing straight through the milk and to the door, where Brian takes control.

  ‘Come on now, Joe,’ Brian rasps. ‘Let’s get gone. Patricia’s in the minibus already. She’s a bit frisky this morning. I think you might be in there.’

  I pull a face at Brian. I can’t quite believe that he said that but he just winks at me. Whatever it takes to get you through the day is okay, I suppose.

  As the minibus pulls away, I set to with the mop to clear up the milk lake.

  Outside, a stranger approaches the house. The street looks nice, the stranger thinks: affluent but not too pleased with itself. She has checked and double-checked the address and memorised the route from the bus stop so that she won’t have to ask directions. It wouldn’t do to draw attention to herself. This is a small town and she can’t be sure who might know who.

  She edges up the pavement, squinting at the houses. Three, five, seven . . . Her heart pumps hard in her chest and she sucks in deep lungfuls of air just to keep upright.

  When she reaches the house next door but one she stops, opening her bag and pretending to search for something. She peers out from under the brim of her hat. She can see the house clearly from here: a three-storey Victorian townhouse with a handkerchief-sized front garden and a picket fence. How does this tally with her mind’s-eye version of where they’ve been living all these years? The windows are dirty, she notices, and there are dead leaves clogging up the foot of the downpipes, but the curtains look nicely made. A stone urn by the front door had been filled with summer bedding but now the plants are straggly and brown, savaged by the early frosts. Still, someone cared enough to plant them in the first place, she thinks.

  She feels a little braver now that she’s here. What would she do if someone were to look out from an upstairs window? Would she smile at them, chance a wave?

  A minibus turns into the street, slowing down as it approaches. She drops her head and walks on. It pulls up just behind her and she hears the door open and the driver get out. He says something to his passengers and then strides up the path to the house, knocking confidently on the front door.

  She crosses the street and heads back the way she came.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The nurse from the agency is due to arrive at 2 p.m. and I am as ready for her as I will ever be. The house where Dad and I have lived for the last thirty years or so is big and tricky to keep clean by myself, particularly when I’m just not interested in the task. It has high ceilings, draughty window casements and far too many nooks and crannies for dust and spiders to settle in. Frankly, the place feels unkempt and unloved. Even though we barely use half the rooms now, the ones we do inhabit seem to have slithered out of my control. I am not naturally tidy but I have tried because that was how Dad liked things. When Michael and I were children, Dad ran a pretty tight ship. Partly, I suppose, this was because Mum wasn’t around and he didn’t want to be accused of not looking after us properly, but mainly I think tidiness was just embedded in his DNA. Since Dad has been drifting further and further from me, my handle on the house has done the same. He no longer notices the dust and disorder and it doesn’t bother me either so that works just fine.

  I do want to make a good impression on this nurse, though, so I put a few things away and surge around with the vacuum cleaner and a duster. I even have a go at the inside of the windows, but now that it is light outside I see the half-moon smears on the panes. Waves of soured milk keep wafting over from the kitchen but I am hoping that nurses are used to that sort of thing. As I straighten a pile of bridal magazines on the coffee table, I tell myself again that the woman is not coming to judge me on my housekeeping skills – and yet, out of a sense of loyalty to Dad, I want the old place to look its best.

  The hands on the mantelpiece clock move closer to two and a scene from Mary Poppins plays in my imagination. I adored that film when I was small. I longed for a magical nanny to love me. And now here we are again, with me searching for someone to swoop in and make everything better with a spoonful of sugar.

  I have decided to get the ball rolling with the nurse when Dad is at the day centre. That way, if she turns out to be a disaster then he need never know that I tried to fob him off on a stranger. I know that’s not what I am doing but it’s how it feels to me. I retrieve the agency’s letter from its hiding place between the pages of on
e of my magazines. On paper, Mrs A. Partington looks just the ticket, with plenty of experience and excellent, recent references. I wonder what the ‘A’ stands for? Alison maybe? Or Abigail? I’m glad she is married. Somehow it makes her sound more experienced, which I know is ridiculous. I catch myself hoping that she’s older than me too but I cannot really put my finger on why.

  At bang on two o’clock the doorbell rings. Through the opaque glass of the front door, I can see the outline of a woman in dark clothing. She’s not wearing a hat or carrying a brolly so it is unlikely to be Mary P. Yet again the thought that I am failing Dad punches me so hard in the stomach that it takes my breath away and I have to gather myself before I lift the latch. I screw my guilt deep down inside me where I can’t feel it. Dad is very vulnerable and this woman is a total stranger but no one is saying that I have to give her the job. This is just a chat. I open the door.

  She must be in her fifties, so she passes my first test. She is wearing a tidy gabardine mac in a smart navy blue and is carrying a matching leather handbag under her arm. Her hair, gunmetal grey and slightly wiry, is short and neatly cut. She’s not wearing any make-up. I don’t look down at her feet but I just know that she’s wearing sensible shoes.

  ‘Hi,’ I say and smile broadly with my best welcoming smile. ‘I’m Cara. Please come in.’

  ‘Angela Partington. How do you do?’ she says.

  Her voice doesn’t have the harsh consonants of a Yorkshire accent but I can’t identify where she’s from. Somewhere south is the best I can do. She holds out her hand and her handshake is firm, her skin cool and dry. I’m aware that my own palm feels slightly clammy but I resist the urge to snatch it back. I feel her fingertips linger over the rough ridges and crevices of my damaged skin and her eyes widen slightly but thankfully she doesn’t pass comment.

  ‘Dad’s not here just now,’ I add as I see her scanning the parts of the house that are visible from the hallway. ‘He goes to the day centre most days. He’s got a few friends there and the staff keep him busy. It’s good for him to get out and it gives me a chance to get things done.’ I pull a face to show how tricky my life is and immediately worry that I will come across as unsympathetic, uncaring, but she doesn’t seem to notice. ‘I thought it might be best if we met when he’s not here. He can be a bit . . .’ I search for a word that will describe his behaviour without sounding too disloyal. ‘Disruptive. Well, you know what I mean, don’t you?’ I add.