The Other Daughter Read online

  ‘That’s where I’m going. I think I have a nice leek and potato pie in the freezer, or I have some stuffed potato skins that were on offer. No fresh beans, I’m afraid. You didn’t tell me you were coming round.’

  ‘Watch each step, Mum.’ Dawn follows her mother, arms out, one either side, ready to catch her.

  ‘And a lemon cheesecake for afters.’

  ‘It must be off by now, Mum – you’ve been eating that for weeks.’

  ‘The lemon cheesecake?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, it lasts for ages, doesn’t it, in the freezer? Oh, I don’t know why but just coming in from the other room has tired me out.’

  She grasps the edge of the cheap pine kitchen table and pulls out a chair, but as she lowers herself onto it she misjudges it. ‘Oh!’ she cries, lurching to one side, but Dawn is there to catch her and sit her upright again.

  ‘You okay, Mum?’ she says, and there is the rage again. It makes no sense. And it’s very unkind.

  ‘I’m fine.’ Mum sits carefully with guidance.

  ‘You nearly fell again!’ Dawn squats to look her in the face, forcing her own feelings down.

  ‘I didn’t, don’t fuss.’ She will not make eye contact.

  ‘What if you fall tomorrow and there’s no one here to catch you? What then?’

  ‘I won’t, don’t be so silly. Just give me a moment and I’ll get the pie out.’

  ‘I’m worried, Mum. What if you do fall? Maybe the incident with the Damart catalogue has shaken you. Maybe in a few days you’ll be fine but right now I think you need someone to be here with you, for a few days.’

  ‘Can you take the time off work? The pie’s in the second drawer down in the freezer.’ She points in the direction of the back door but makes no effort to stand.

  ‘No, I can’t, not with this new supervisor.’ Dawn struggles to open the freezer door. It needs defrosting.

  ‘And peas, bring out the peas.’

  Dawn puts the pie in the oven and the peas on the stove, and is about to sit.

  ‘Let’s not have steerage, eh?’ Mum says and points to the cupboard on the back wall where she keeps the lidded bowls and other serving dishes she has collected over the years from charity shops. The pie must be served onto plates before it comes to the table, or else it needs a presentation plate of its own. The jars of mustard, hollandaise sauce and ketchup from the fridge are arranged on saucers, each with a teaspoon. Dawn plays by the rules. Usually she does it without a thought – it’s as it has always been, as it was when she was small – but occasionally it strikes her as pretentious. Mother was brought up on a council estate, after all, in the poorest part of Bradford.

  ‘Did you see we’ve got a postcard from Amanda?’ Mum chirps. ‘The boys are doing so well at school, top of the class for Carl. I think Lucas is a little jealous, and even though they can’t manage without her they’ve finally cut down Amanda’s hours at the hospital. She works such long hours, I do worry that she puts herself under too much pressure.’

  Dawn nods and makes the right noises. She stares out of the window at the flat, grey sky. The weather has turned cold and she wouldn’t be surprised if there was a frost. It’s a way off yet but it’s been many years since they had a white Christmas. It would be nice to have a white Christmas, like they had when she was a child. Didn’t they?

  ‘I think the pie’s burning.’ Mum makes no attempt to stand so Dawn gets up and puts the food into the serving vessels. Mum fusses with the cork mats they are to stand on. Then Dawn sits and waits for the complaint that the plates are not hot enough, but it doesn’t come today. The food is chewed mostly in silence, with only a brief exchange about the new brand of hollandaise sauce. But as Dawn puts her knife and fork together she notices that Mum has hardly eaten a thing.

  ‘The potatoes and leeks are good,’ she encourages her. ‘Try them, leave the pastry.’ But Mum just pushes her pie about the plate.

  The lemon cheesecake has seen better days but at least Mum will eat that; she’s always had a sweet tooth.

  ‘I’ll just give it a second in the microwave, Mum, so it’s not so frozen.’

  But today Mum does not eat dessert either, and she demands coffee instead, freshly ground and filtered, but when it’s made she fails to actually drink any.

  ‘How much have you had to drink today, Mum?’ Dawn asks as they settle back in the television room. The dishwasher hums away in the kitchen – a comforting sound that makes the place feel more lived in.

  ‘Same as usual. A coffee here and there.’

  ‘You drink too much coffee. Have you had any water?’

  ‘You know I don’t drink water.’

  ‘Well, you should.’

  ‘Don’t fuss.’

  ‘Listen, Mum, I need to go home. There are things I need to do.’ This isn’t true, but Dawn just doesn’t want to be here. She wants her own space, her own things about her. ‘Are you are all right, will you be all right tomorrow?’

  ‘I’ll be fine. A good night’s sleep will see me right.’

  ‘Shall I help you to bed?’ Dawn offers.

  ‘It’s a bit early.’

  ‘Yes, but – well, there are the stairs.’ It’s selfish to put her own needs first. ‘I tell you what, I’ll stay a little longer and then see you up the stairs.’

  ‘No need.’

  Dawn settles back into her seat. A repeat of her soap opera comes on and she relishes the chance to escape, even though she has already seen it. But two minutes into it, Mum says, ‘Drivel,’ and changes the channel to something about a man sailing a raft down the canals to London to deliver a piano. Although annoyed about missing her soap, Dawn is interested in this mad scheme. The presenter is just about to speak to the raft owner himself, who comes from a nearby town, when Mum pipes up again – ‘What stupid things some people do!’ – and the channel is changed again to some old black-and-white film. The film holds Mum’s attention, and Dawn retreats behind a magazine from the sofa.

  By the time the film has finished Mum is yawning, and Dawn encourages her up the stairs to bed. She looks old and frail, taking up only part of her half of the big double bed. Dad watches over her sternly, framed in silver on the bedside table; the sheets on his side are smooth, undisturbed.

  ‘Mum, I’m going to make you some sandwiches for lunch tomorrow and I’ll leave out five mugs, each with a teaspoon of coffee in them, or a teabag. That way you can keep track of how much you’ve drunk and eaten, okay?’

  ‘Pass me my book, dear.’

  ‘Did you hear me?’ There is a grunt. ‘Goodnight, Mum, I’ll come after work tomorrow.’

  ‘Hmmmm.’ Mum fumbles with her glasses and opens the book.

  Dawn’s phone beeps, a text from June.

  Hope you have ‘naughty’ reasons for missing pub quiz? Hilary and I failed miserably, as per always ;-)

  The new supervisor is pushing her weight around the following day and all the staff are complaining about her, even the canteen staff. On top of that, there are way too many emails in Dawn’s inbox, the first of which is about Hogdykes Abattoir, and the annual inspection that is due. She forwards the email to several colleagues – someone else can deal with it. There’s a new case for her to look into today – a complaint about a house with too many dogs and rabbits being kept in unsanitary conditions over in Little Lotherton. Dawn has not been there before, and on the map it looks to be out in the middle of nowhere, a single street of mill cottages backing onto the moors and farmland. It actually turns out to be not a million miles away from Hogdykes Abattoir.

  ‘That has to be the smallest village ever,’ Dawn mutters to herself as she looks more closely. It’s an old map and it shows a stream running down one side of the street. One plot of land is bigger than the rest – that will be where the mill was originally. The cottages will have been built for the millworkers, but who would want to live so far from anywhere in this day and age, and how would they earn a living? She’ll have to drive out the
re to take a look, check out the validity of the complaint. A day in the country, away from Ms Moss, her new boss. Maybe she could even stretch it to a pub lunch.

  The little car starts with ease. It feels good, liberating, to be out of the office. The roadmap is open on the passenger seat but she doesn’t refer to it for the first part of the journey – she has a good general idea where the village is located.

  The route to Little Lotherton takes her out of Keighley’s granite streets and into open countryside, along the Aire Valley, following the train tracks that snake along the valley bottom. Hills rise up on either side – sheep in fields neatly divided into squares by dark drystone walls on one side, and the rugged open moors on the other.

  Dawn passes through a number of villages, and now she has to stop often to consult her map. She is not the best of map readers.

  ‘Ah,’ she exclaims as she eventually crosses over the train tracks. To her right is signposted Greater Lotherton. She wants to go the other way – Little Lotherton is reached by a lane off to the left here somewhere.

  ‘There you are!’ Dawn spots the exit, then turns the car off the main road and up a narrow cobbled lane. There’s an old red phone box on the corner, of the type that you don’t see much these days. Cars are parked intermittently all the way up on the right-hand side, which means if she drives up she will have to reverse back down; the street is not wide enough for her to turn around. She leaves her car at the bottom, and her cardigan flaps in the wind as she climbs out. She should have brought a coat, but the office is kept so warm and it always fools her. She wraps the thin knitted fabric around her. The narrow pavement is made up of large old flagstones, worn here and there for puddles to gather, tidelines showing where these have evaporated again and again. The street is a steady incline.

  ‘Which makes sense if there’s a stream at the back of these houses,’ Dawn observes.

  The cottages are on two levels, built of blackened stone, with tall narrow windows on the upper floors to give maximum light. These are old weaving cottages, built some two hundred years ago. One up, one down, and an outhouse behind. It’s extraordinary to think that looms once dominated these upper floors and the families lived in such cramped conditions below.

  Near the top is a house that must be the place she has been called out to see. The windows are dark, as if things are piled up in front of them on the inside, and where the front door should be is a wardrobe, which acts as a rudimentary porch. But it is the smell that really gives it away. The stench is nauseating as she approaches and Dawn thinks she might be physically sick. She pulls her cardigan over her nose and mouth but it doesn’t help much. The cottages are set back a little from the street, and each has a very narrow strip of garden in front, edged by a low stone wall. Most of these gardens are neatly tended, and one or two are overflowing with flowers. Others are no more than a patch of earth and gravel. There are no flowers in front of the house she has come to inspect.

  She leans over the wall and knocks. The wardrobe rattles and inside the house several dogs bark, but no one comes to the door.

  ‘Excuse me?’ Dawn calls to an elderly man who is opening a window in the house next door.

  ‘What d’you want?’ He eyes her suspiciously.

  ‘Dawn Todman, Health and Safety. Bradford Council. Do you know if anyone’s in?’ She knows the title she has just given herself is not wholly accurate, but past experience has proved that it gives her the gravitas to get the job done.

  ‘Health and Safety? ’Bout time you did summit ’bout ’im. Hundreds of dogs he has, and rabbits! It’s not nice. Not proper.’ He seems a little more friendly now.

  ‘Well, I’ve heard several dogs barking. Where does he keep the rabbits – inside?’

  ‘No, round back.’

  There are several cages at the back of the house, rough-looking home-made affairs, stacked two and three high. The rabbits look well enough, except one that is so large it can hardly turn in its cage.

  Dawn had a rabbit called Jemima when she was a child – Myma for short.

  ‘Place is overrun with the creatures,’ the neighbour grumbles.

  ‘How many dogs are there?’ She looks towards the house as the wind changes.’ And what’s the smell?’ she exclaims, holding the sleeve of her cardigan over her nose.

  ‘That’s what I’m saying, it’s not right. I have to live with that!’ The man sounds triumphant. ‘That’s what happens when you have too many animals inside.’

  ‘Is it coming from the house?’

  ‘So now you can get rid of them animals, and get rid of that bloody Cyril too!’

  ‘I think there might be a need to get rid of the animals if that’s what’s causing the smell.’ Dawn turns, eager to get away from the stench. ‘I’ll write a report and see what can be done.’

  Cases involving animals are tricky. If her feedback to her boss is too strong and it is decided that the occupier cannot continue to live as he is doing, then there is a good chance that the animals will be put down. She must tread carefully.

  ‘Write a report! Bloody typical. You need to get shut of them animals, not write any report. What good will that do!’

  ‘I have to follow procedures, Mr …?’

  ‘Brocklethwaite.’

  ‘Well, Mr Brocklethwaite, I’ll write my report and proper steps will be taken.’ She puts her cardigan over her nose again. ‘That’s bad, isn’t it,’ she says.

  ‘Aye, and I have to live with it while you go off and write your bloody report.’ Mr Brocklethwaite stands on his doorstep, hands thrust deep in his pockets.

  Back in the office, Dawn words her report so as to emphasise that the animals appear to be in good health, hoping that by focusing on this she might spare them death. It may be possible to rehome the dogs, although she didn’t manage to get even a glimpse of any of them. It’s the rabbits that will be more of a problem, she stresses.

  How she had hugged and petted her Myma when she was little. Myma – she was her confidante, an ally to whom she had whispered her secrets, voiced her stifled frustrations about Mum, promised that she would become a vet and earn enough money to liberate all Myma’s relations at the pet shop.

  Dawn looks up from her report. ‘I got her when I was seven and she died when I was’ – she looks at the ceiling, trying to recall – ‘seventeen.’ Ten years she had had the rabbit, and she can still remember her heartbreak when she came to feed Myma one morning and found her curled in her bed, her grey muzzle not twitching, her lungs still.

  With a sharp intake of breath, she realizes her thoughts have wandered from her work and she looks across at her supervisor’s cubicle, partitioned in glass. Ms Moss is on the phone. She doesn’t look so fierce when she smiles, but just as Dawn is thinking this Ms Moss catches her watching and the smile is gone, her face blank. She swivels her chair around to face the window.

  A glance at the clock on the wall shows that time has slowed down. Dawn reflects that she should have taken longer when she was out, sat in the car a while.

  ‘I have to go out now. If anything urgent comes up, leave a note on my desk. I’ll deal with it tomorrow.’ Ms Moss emerges from her glass box, pulling on her coat. Her heels click as she marches out of the office.

  Sighs are heard from all corners of the open-plan office, and yawns and stretching noises follow. Dawn looks at the clock again. She should go, see if Mum is all right. She waits a few minutes, long enough to be sure her supervisor has definitely gone, and bundles her coat up, carrying it in front of her, pressed against her stomach, hidden by her flapping cardigan, and she takes the door to the toilets. There are no lifts here but there is a staircase, and as soon as the door behind her has swung shut she starts down the stairs that lead to the garage under the building. The place is only half full of cars, which shows how many people leave early, and now she is one of them.

  The smell of yesterday’s leek and potato pie is mixed with the permanent aroma of old coats and dusty carpets. Nothing has moved in th
e room by the back door, and in the kitchen the sandwiches sit untouched, their corners curling on the plate on the table; the tea and coffee mugs are undisturbed. She listens, and her hunched shoulders relax a little when she hears the television is on.

  ‘Mum?’ she calls out over the sound of it.

  ‘Who’s there?’ The old voice sounds frightened.

  ‘It’s only me, Mum – Dawn.’

  Mum is sitting in her usual chair, television remote in her hand. She looks smaller today, for some reason. ‘You haven’t drawn the curtains? How are you?’ Dawn has to shout over the adverts, which Mum has not muted.

  ‘I feel so tired.’ She gives the appearance of having melted into the chair.

  ‘Shall I plump up your cushion?’ Dawn takes the remote and turns the sound down.

  ‘My back hurts.’ Mum speaks in her normal voice; there is no need to shout now the sound is muted.

  ‘Well, judging by the uneaten sandwiches and the coffee cups, you’ve been sitting here all day. No wonder it hurts. Come on, get up.’

  ‘In a minute.’

  ‘Never mind in a minute, you’ve had all day. Why did you not drink anything?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘You didn’t.’

  ‘I did.’ Her trembling hand indicates a tiny sherry glass on the round table beside her.

  ‘Mum. Listen.’ Dawn squats to put her hands on Mum’s knees, and looks her in the face. ‘You’ve neither eaten nor drunk anything. I really think the Damart incident has knocked you for six. I’m going to call in a favour so someone can be with you tomorrow and Thursday, then I’ll be here for Friday and the weekend and we’ll see how you are after that. Okay?’

  ‘I managed fine today, didn’t I? I didn’t fall.’

  ‘You didn’t move and you didn’t drink, and you’ll be dehydrated. I’ll make some tea but you really need to drink more than that.’

  She leaves Mum to fiddle with the remote, goes through to check the sideboard in the dining room. This room is rarely used – once a year at Christmas, but not in recent years. A layer of dust shows Dawn how long it has been since she was there to give everything a proper clean. The sherry bottle is almost empty; she will get more. Mum has so few vices – a drop of sherry and a square of chocolate will do more good than harm at her age. She takes a swig straight from the bottle, and then another. A picture of Dad scowls down at her from the wall.