The Mistake Read online

  Ronnie keeps his back door unlocked when he’s at home, so I just tap on the kitchen window and step quickly inside.

  I’ve tried to warn him about opportunist thieves and rogue callers but he won’t have it. He still thinks it’s the eighties when he and the other residents of the terraces lived and worked in the midst of a mutual community trust they took for granted.

  There are as many new people in the village as original residents now. Strangers. Bumping into faces that nobody recognises at every corner.

  It’s a danger I know only too well.

  Usually, when I pop next door, Ronnie will be in the kitchen, pottering around in that hesitant, forgetful way he has these days. Sometimes he likes to sit at the tiny table in the single chair, poring over the cryptic crossword he can never seem to finish any more.

  But today he isn’t in here.

  I put the carrier bag that contains his shopping on the worktop and dump the others and my handbag by the door for when I leave.

  ‘Hello?’ I call as I walk across the room. He doesn’t usually like to settle down in the living room until the evening programmes begin, so maybe he’s upstairs in the bathroom.

  I hesitate at the bottom of the stairs. I’ve been coming round here all my life to see Ronnie and Sheila and yet I still find it strange to stand quietly in the mirror image of my own home, feeling it so utterly different.

  I crane my neck around the door leading to the living room.

  The furnishings in here are all very dated but of a quality that’s lasted well through the years. A blue-and-brown patterned Axminster carpet runs through the hallway into the living room, where a walnut sideboard and television cabinet crowd the space. The burnished oxblood Chesterfield three-seater and matching high-backed winged chair sit rather grandly in the cramped room and heavy velvet drapes in a similar shade frame the single net-curtained window.

  It’s dark and drab, but Ronnie and Sheila were never fans of the light, minimal look. They came from a generation that preferred clutter; the more elaborate, the better. All these quality furnishings were selected with love and purchased with a good living earned from the pit, where Ronnie was known as the Overman, a sort of underground foreman.

  When Dad – the then-young Raymond Tinsley – first started at Newstead Colliery after leaving school, Ronnie was already well established and respected in the mining hierarchy there, and, as he knew the family well, he took Dad under his wing. That’s the way things worked around here for years when everyone looked after each other.

  Ronnie isn’t here in the living room either.

  I begin to climb the stairs, a sense of foreboding laying heavy on my chest.

  ‘Ronnie?’ I call.

  I hear a scrape, and, as I near the top and the landing, a soft groan. When I reach the top, I tap tentatively on the bathroom door, my heart thumping.

  As I push open the door, Ronnie’s socked feet and skinny white ankles immediately come into view and when I step into the tiny room, there he is, lying prostate on the floor, his face pinched with pain.

  I walk forward and clasp my hand across my mouth and nose at the stench of vomit and worse. He looks at me with rolling, wide eyes and murmurs, and I step back out of the room to take a breath.

  ‘Don’t worry, Ronnie, I’ll get an ambulance.’

  And then I run downstairs for my phone.

  8

  ROSE

  PRESENT DAY

  I grab my phone from my handbag and call emergency services immediately, praying that the ambulance doesn’t take too long to arrive.

  Back upstairs I place a folded towel under Ronnie’s head, flush the gruesome contents of the lavatory and step over his legs and the cracked, worn Linoleum, to open the small, frosted window next to the bath.

  ‘The ambulance is on its way, Ronnie,’ I tell him. ‘Did you slip and fall?’

  He doesn’t answer but his eyes widen further and he swallows hard, his mouth crooked. I wonder briefly if he’s had a mild stroke and pray I’m wrong.

  ‘You’re probably just weak from the bug you’ve had the last couple of days, Ronnie,’ I say, trying to comfort him. ‘Did you black out?’

  His whispered reply is so faint I nearly miss it. ‘No.’

  His mouth is moving, like he’s trying to say something else but he can’t seem to manage it. I make sure he’s as comfortable as I can make him and head back downstairs to look out for the ambulance. Within minutes, I’m showing the two paramedics upstairs.

  ‘What’s the patient’s name?’ the taller one asks me as we all troop up.

  ‘His name’s Ronnie.’

  ‘And is Ronnie conscious?’

  ‘Yes, but he’s not moving and he can’t seem to speak very well,’ I explain.

  ‘How did it happen?’

  ‘I don’t know. I just found him up there on the floor when I popped round to bring his shopping. He’s been a bit unwell with a stomach upset the last couple of days.’

  ‘Any idea how long he was up there before you found him?’

  ‘I don’t know, sorry.’ I feel hopeless, as if I somehow ought to know more helpful details.

  One of the paramedics stands on the landing as the bathroom is too small for them both to attend to Ronnie. I hover at the top of the stairs for a minute or two but I’m just getting in the way, so I come back down.

  Ronnie does well, at his age, to keep the house tidy but sitting here in the kitchen, instead of my usual dash in and back out, I can see the tell-tale signs of neglect. The floor is desperate for a sweep and the worktops are covered in dull smears and stale crumbs. It’s obvious that a thorough clean is long overdue.

  I feel bad. I should have thought to offer Ronnie my help before now, to help him keep on top of things.

  The Turners couldn’t do enough to help my family when Billy was taken and yet I’m ashamed to say it had never occurred to me to offer to pop round once or twice a week to help Ronnie with his chores.

  I’d seen recently in the Nottingham Post that there were a couple of retirement villages in construction closer to the city. They seemed to be springing up everywhere; smart, purpose-built accommodation with integrated facilities to make life easier for the ageing-but-still-able population.

  I could see Ronnie settled somewhere like that but I probably won’t suggest it. The elderly villagers tend to stay here until the end of their days; it’s as if they’ve got the pit dust running in their very blood. Even though all the new housing at Jasmine Gardens has brought new people here, there’s an underlying sense that they’re not the ‘proper’ villagers. Not like Ronnie and, I suppose, me.

  ‘Could we have a glass of water up here please, love?’ one of the paramedics calls down.

  I open a number of cupboards looking for glasses and I have to use my hand to push stuff back in, some of them are so bunged up with clutter. Finally, I take a glass of water upstairs.

  I hand it over. ‘How is he?’

  ‘He’s in a bit of a bad way, poor chap. Dehydrated. Does he live alone? Is there any family close by?’

  ‘His wife died about five years ago so he’s on his own now. He has a son, Eric, but it must be ten months or even longer since he’s visited Ronnie. He lives with his own family in Cornwall.’ I shrug away my disapproval. ‘But I live next door and we’re close neighbours. I see him every day, even just if it’s to pop my head round to make sure he’s OK. You know, see if he needs anything.’

  ‘I wish more folks were like you.’ He looks regretful. ‘Doesn’t take much to check in on elderly neighbours, does it?’

  The other paramedic’s head appears from around the bathroom door.

  ‘Good job you checked up on him today,’ he says in a low voice, and looks at his colleague. ‘It’s a very nasty virus. We’re going to have to take him in but he’s far too weak to walk.’

  I wait downstairs while they bring poor old Ronnie down on a stretcher. His face is deathly pale and he seems to have aged ten years since yester
day.

  ‘Don’t worry, Ronnie—’ I squeeze his hand gently, feel his cool, papery skin pressing into my palm ‘—I’ll lock up and feed Tina. I’ll make sure everything’s OK with the house.’

  He opens his mouth as if he’s going to say something but his breath catches in his throat and he starts to cough.

  ‘Steady on, Ronnie,’ one of the paramedics says. ‘Just breathe, nice and easy. Don’t try to speak.’

  They wait until he stops coughing before moving again. But still Ronnie continues to murmur.

  ‘D – don’t – I—’

  ‘What’s that, Ronnie?’ I bend my head closer to him. ‘What’re you trying to say?’

  ‘Don’t go—’ He coughs, his voice raspy and almost incoherent.

  ‘I think he wants me to stay with him,’ I say. ‘Is that it, Ronnie? You don’t want me to go?’

  He tries again and then, finally, I catch his words. I realise what it is he’s been trying to say.

  ‘Don’t… go… upstairs,’ he whispers.

  9

  SIXTEEN YEARS EARLIER

  Rose wolfed down the plate of home-made Shepherd’s pie her mum put in front of her and made her excuses to get out of the house as quickly as possible.

  Her mum and dad were arguing about money again. Even Billy had made some excuse about going to play footie on the field and dived out of the house before her.

  Cassie and her family lived on Byron Street, which was located over on the other side of the village, a steady ten-minute walk from Rose’s own house.

  It was a pleasant afternoon so she decided to walk the long way round to Cassie’s house. As she walked, Rose thought about her classes that day. She’d chosen to draw classical figures with charcoal on paper but Cassie had used the brightest pastels and her modern explosions of colour were the polar opposite of her friend’s conservative efforts.

  Cassie loved Picasso and Banksy; Rose preferred Van Gogh and Turner. But that saying about opposites attracting… well, that kind of applied to her and Cassie.

  Rose had known they were a great match right from their first day at primary school, when they’d swapped coat pegs and painting tabards; Cassie had wanted red and she’d wanted the pale pink.

  Now, Cassie lived with her mum, Carolyn, and her older brother, Jed. Her dad, known to the locals as Bomber but whose real name was Brian, had been good friends with Rose’s dad, Ray. When the girls were younger, the two men would regularly go for a pint down the welfare together after work and were members of the same snooker hall in Hucknall.

  Bomber died on the coalface. Ray Tinsley had been working the same shift that day but quite a bit further down the line. The roof had collapsed at the end of the tunnel where Bomber had been working. For weeks afterwards, the village had rung with the story of how all the other men, including Ray, had dug at the earth with their bare hands, trying to reach him before the pit rescue team arrived.

  They did get to him, but by that time Bomber had already gone.

  When he’d come home, Ray had been broken. It was only one of two times Rose had seen him openly cry. Ray had said he’d never seen anything like it; Bomber’s head had been crushed flat as a pancake. Rose had never told Cassie about that.

  Her dad had nightmares for months afterwards. The National Coal Board denied any wrongdoing and the court ruled that the roof collapse was an ‘Act of God’ and could not be ascribed to any safety failings by the company.

  The NCB voluntarily opted to give Carolyn a small sum, which the local press called a ‘payment of goodwill’.

  Rose raised her hand to knock at the door when Cassie’s brother opened it.

  ‘Hello, Jed,’ she said.

  He grunted and swept by her, heading off down the road.

  ‘There’s a man in a rush,’ she said as Cassie appeared at the door.

  ‘Ignore him.’ Cassie rolled her eyes. ‘He’s a bloody sponger, living off Mam. She’s just given him a tenner to pour down his throat at the Station Hotel. We’ve all just had a big row about it. Anyway—’ she stood back ‘—let’s get you upstairs and in front of the mirror. I’ll have you looking like Christina Aguilera in no time at all.’

  Rose grinned and pulled a face. ‘You got a magic wand up there, have you?’

  ‘No, just my amazing artistry skills. Step this way, madam.’

  Upstairs in her cramped bedroom, Cassie had set out her full make-up kit on the dressing table. Rose sat down on the stool, touched her friend had gone to such an effort to help her. Cassie had been asking to make Rose up for ages and she’d agreed she could. But there always seemed something better to do when it came down to it.

  ‘I have to be back for seven-thirty in case Gareth rings early,’ Rose said.

  ‘Yeah, you said… for the third flipping time!’ She sighed. ‘Chill out a bit, will you?’

  Cassie pressed a button on her CD player and the room filled with Britney Spears singing, I’m a Slave 4 U.

  Cassie grabbed a pair of mangled, worn tan tights from the floor and draped them round her shoulders. Then she started gyrating and twisting the tights so they resembled a snake.

  ‘You look just like Britney at the VMA’s, Cass… not!’ Rose burst out laughing as Cassie whipped the tights off and flung them at her.

  ‘Ugh.’ Rose pushed them off her and on to the floor. ‘Get on with it then or it’ll soon be time for me to go home.’

  Cassie turned the music down a bit.

  ‘You’re really pretty, you know, Rose,’ she said, picking up a tendril of long, pale red hair and twisting it into a thick rope which she then pinned to the back of Rose’s head. ‘You just have to learn how to make the best of yourself.’

  She instructed Rose to turn the stool around so she was facing away from the mirror.

  ‘Just so it’s a surprise when I’ve finished, like the makeovers you see on the telly,’ she explained.

  Rose’s eyes flicked over the room. She noticed the single bed was unmade and the sheets looked dingy and in need of a good wash. The bedside table was covered in used mugs and plates and empty crisp bags and there was a pile of dirty washing in the corner of the room. No wonder there was a fusty smell in here.

  ‘Soz, I know it’s a mess.’ Cassie shrugged, without embarrassment.

  Rose forced her eyes away from the mess and fixed them on her friend’s face instead.

  Cassie was still obsessed by the pop group No Doubt even though they’d been around a while now. She’d modelled her look on the lead singer, Gwen Stefani. Hair bleached to within an inch of its life, heavy make-up and mostly skimpy clothes. It was a startling effect.

  Sadly, Rose knew that even if you dressed up like a pop star, walking around a tiny village like Newstead didn’t have quite the same effect as being the real singer, on stage. Rather than drawing admiration for her lookalike image to a famous singer, Cassie had quickly earned herself the reputation of being quite a tarty-looking wild child. It wasn’t an entirely unfair description, thought Rose; she always had to go over the top.

  ‘I’d rather face the mirror so I can see what you’re doing,’ Rose complained. ‘I thought I was supposed to be learning how to apply all this stuff.’

  ‘And I’ll teach you,’ Cassie said shortly, pouring a little make-up base on the back of her hand and dipping a rather grubby-looking sponge into it. ‘But first I want you to see how good you can look. Just relax.’

  But Rose couldn’t relax. She didn’t like Cassie being so close up to her face; close enough to see she had one eyebrow higher than the other, three chicken pox scars on her left cheek and a big angry red zit on her forehead. The only good thing being that she didn’t have to look at herself in the mirror. Rose hated her Titian hair and pale skin. She hated these features with a passion.

  On the one hand, it seemed as if she’d sat there for hours but, as she was keeping a close eye on the time, she realised it had actually only been around twenty minutes.

  ‘Ta-dah!’ She unpinned Rose’s
hair. It cascaded down and Cassie mussed it around her shoulders. ‘You can turn around now.’

  10

  SIXTEEN YEARS EARLIER

  Rose squeezed her eyes shut until she faced the mirror again and then opened them.

  ‘Wow,’ she breathed.

  ‘Wow is right,’ Cassie agreed. ‘You look like a proper model. Like you’re in your twenties, instead of about twelve.’

  Rose pulled a face at her friend in the mirror but her eyes were soon dragged back to her own features. She couldn’t stop looking at her reflection.

  The model thing was pushing it but she definitely did look a lot older, far more worldly-wise and sophisticated.

  She saw with approval that Cassie had framed her green eyes with subtle, smoky shades in chocolate brown and gold and that she’d used a fine black liner, which had redefined her round, deep-set eyes. Now, Rose thought, she looked less like a pig and more like a slinky cat.

  Her pale, blotchy skin had been smoothed into a flawless porcelain canvas, and for the first time ever, her lips appeared plump and pouted seductively in a deep-plum shade.

  ‘You look flipping knockout,’ Cassie said, grinning. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I can’t believe it. I love it!’ Rose turned, still seated, and hugged her friend close.

  ‘Watch you don’t smudge it all.’ Cassie laughed, pushing her back a little. ‘I don’t want my amazing talent going to waste.’

  ‘Thanks so much, Cass.’

  ‘De nada.’ She waved her thanks away. ‘Now. Let’s talk about what you need to be doing in the cinema with Gareth. Any ideas?’

  Rose frowned. ‘Watch the film and then talk about it afterwards?’

  ‘No, no, no!’ She shook her head in desperation in time with her words. ‘When you leave the Odeon, you shouldn’t have a clue what the film was about, silly.’

  ‘How come?’